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Nnrth Tenbh StreEt, 

PhILADE. LPHIA. 


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. . Aunu.ii S(ii»scnptiuii, ;unf: ' Hnlcrv:! tlif 

■; 11= -.pij.i Pa., P. O, .IS second-'. lass matter. 







Tragedy of the Mountains 

OR 

THE WHITE ROCKS. 

A THRILLING TALE OF THE ALLEGHENIES. 

By a. F. hill. 

M ^ y 


PHILADELPHIA 

COLUMBIAN PUBLISHING COMPANY 
35 North Tenth Street. 



By COLUMBIAN PUBLISHING CO. , . 

..N ' V 

1890 . / 

■ -r.-v T-n:;;?--. v;:; :- 



PREFACE 


Although this work is simply a narrative of facts which 
occurred many years ago in the vicinity of the oil lands of 
'^Vestern Pennsylvania, it must not be supposed that I have 
written it merely to present to the world, for my own advan- 
tage, an exciting story. The object which I have in view, 
beyond all that, is, to set forth a lesson which may prove 
useful to those fair ones who are prone to regard outward 
show rather than real worth. If the perusal of this work 
shall induce the fair reader to reflect seriously on the subject 
presented, and shall move her to greater vigilance against 
flattery and deception — if the lesson herein contained shall 
prove a warning against the perfidy that too often lurks be- 
hind the smooth tongue, the handsome face and the portly 
figure — the chief object for which it was written shall have 
been accomplished, 

I hope, too, that this story may contain a moral by which 
young men may proflt. The manner in which Philip Kirke 
(who was not naturally more wickedly-inclined, perhaps, 

than the ordinary run of mortals) went from bad to worse, 

( 5 ) 


6 


PEEFACE. 


and from worse to worst of all, should admonish the young 
man, when tempted, to ** abstain from appearance of evil/* 
If this were exclusively a work of fiction, I should be far 
from denying it ; but it is not. The facts on which this 
story is based can be attested by every resident of the sec- 
tion of country where the scenes are laid. Not a few still 
live in that vicinity who distinctly remember the occurrence 
at the White Rocks, and who can relate, substantially, 
to-day, the story I have presented in these pages. The 
White Rocks and Delany’s Cave, in the mountain, and the 
Robbers’ Den, on the Monongahela, still remain to speak 
for themselves. 


A. F. Hill, 


TABLE OF CONTENTS 


CHAPTER L 

PAfll, 

The Wounded Farmer 11 

CHAPTER II. 

Death in the Cave 20 

CHAPTER IIL 

The Daughter 30 

CHAPTER IV. 

The Village Tavern 43 

. CHAPTER V. 

The Graveyard Ghost 54 

CHAPTER VL 

The Mysterious Figure 67 

CHAPTER VIL 

The Stolen Horse 76 

CHAPTER VIIL 

Tss Captive Outlaw 89 

(vii) 


riii TABLE of contents. 


Iba Tate 

CHAPTER IX. 

PAffl, 

101 

The Cliff 

CHAPTER X. 

The Winter 

CHAPTER XL 

The Fortune-Teller. 

CHAPTER XII. 

A Tunt 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Mamie Ross.... 

CHAPTER XIV. 

The Delinquent Son.. 

CHAPTER XV. 

The Dbeau 

CHAPTER XVI. 

Pleasure and Pain.... 

• 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Ned as a Farmer 

CHAPTER XVIII 

The Rattlesnake 

CHAPTER XIX. 

The Thunderstorm..... 

CHAPTER XX. 


TABLE OF CONTENTS. iz 

CHAPTER XXI. 

Lost* 20i 

CHAPTER XXII. 

The Rescue 218 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

Tee Mad-dog ..223 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

The Raising... 234 

CHAPTER XXV. 

A Tebrible Night 242 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

Another Plot 250 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

An Eventful Day ...257 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

An Oath 269 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

A Lapse 276 

CHAPTER XXX. 

An April Shower 286 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

A Fearful Suspicion 293 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

A Lasting Separation 302 


X 

TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

The Spy-glass 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

pAa*. 

That Crisis 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

The Shadow 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

32S 

Too LateI 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

341 

The Flight 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

Retribution 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

[n Memoriam 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

CONCLUSIOH 

CHAPTER XL. 


A TRAGEDY OF THE MOraTAINR 


CHAPTER L 

THE WOUNDED FARMER, 

It was more than half a century ago. No graceful, swan- 
!ikr, steamboats glided upon the surface of the winding Mo- 
nongahela, as they do now; railroads were not yet dreamed 
of; STEAM was regarded as a useless, insignificant thing — • 
merJy the ghost of departed water. Traveling, on an exten- 
sive scale, was done in those old-time stages, specimens of 
which may still he seen in remote parts of the country. In 
locahties distant from stage lines, journeys were usually 
accomplished on horseback, or in those homely vehicles 
yclept “ carryalls.** Merchandise was transported across the 
land by means of heavy, clumsy wagons, while canal-boats 
and “ keel-boats ** comprised the chief accommodations in the 
way of water transportation. 

Could the good people of those days have peered through 
the obscure vail of the future, and could they have been 
favored with just one moment’s glance at the present time; 
had they caught a glimpse of the steamboat riding upon the 
smooth river ; of the steamer plowing her way across the 
pathless ocean ; or of the noisy locomotive flying across the 
broad land ; they must have imagined themselves suddenly 
transported to the land of shadows and supernatural things, 

( 11 ) 


12 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


They could not have believed that these strange things were 
merely the toys of their naughty grandchildren. 

What a change half a century has wrought! We smile 
now as we look back only to the time when our grandfathers 
were young and vigorous men. We smile now at the simpli- 
city of the sages of those times. Wonder if our g^'andchildren 
will have equal cause to smile when'they look back on these 
fast times ? It may be ; but it is difficult to realize that the 
next fifty years’ progress of science can equal the last. 

It was a cloudless morning in May. The sun was not up 
yet; but a glowing and brightening-up of the eastern horizon 
gave evidence of his speedy appearance. The dew hung 
heavily upon the green leaves of the bushes and trees that 
graced the wild shores of the Monongahela. 

At this unseemly hour a boat swept around an angle of 
the river, and came in full view of a tall bluff, from which 
the stream turned aside a mile below. The course of the 
river in this intervening mile was straight as an arrow, and 
was hemmed in by lofty wooded hills on either side. The 
tall bluff, which turned the course of the stream to the 
left, was on the Fayette county side, about seventy miles 
from Pittsburg. It presented an appearance that was not 
strange in that vicinity; such scenes were not uncommon 
along the Monongahela. It was very high — at least six or 
seven hundred feet — almost perpendicular; and though ex- 
tremely rocky, was covered with bushes, stunted trees and 
wild vines. 

As the boat came in view of this picturesque and appa- 
rently lonely scene, one of its crew stood upright, drew forth 
a white pocket-handkerchief with a flourish which the occa- 
sion did not seem to warrant, deliberately wiped the perspi- 
ration from his brow, (if, indeed, there was any there,) and, 
with another flourish, returned it to his pocket. And it is a 
fact no less worthy of remark, that almost simultaneously 
a white speck appeared among the green leaves high on the 


THE WOUNDED FARMER. 


13 


face of the bluff, fluttered there a moment, then disappeared 
like a spark. Any one witnessing this would have had no 
difiiculty in making out that it was a signal of some nature, 
in answer to the pocket-handkerchief affair of the boat. It 
seemed to be satisfactory, too, for the boat now skimmed the 
water with increased rapidity, and soon neared the base of 
the bluff. It did not land on reaching the shore, nor yet 
turn aside; but, moving straight forward, darted right into 
the towering hill, and was lost to mortal view. There was 
at this point, however, a small nook or harbor, running back 
only thirty or forty feet ; and its entrance was so narrow as 
to be perfectly concealed, except from the closest inspection, 
by the out-stretching branches of trees which grew upon 
either side and overhung the water. It was a snug little 
cove, and answered well the evil purpose for which it was 
used. We will follow the early navigators into the obscure 
retreat, and see what manner of work they are engaged in. 

On making the boat fast, one of the part)’’ put a curiously- 
contrived whistle to his lips, and uttered a sound so like the 
cry of the whip-poor-will, that to detect the difference would 
have required the nicest ear. It was answered by a similar 
sound from among the foliage, far up the rocky height, and 
the party in the harbor appeared to await the ariival of some 
one from above. 

While they are waiting let us describe them. 

Four persons occupied the boat, which was only an ordi- 
nary skiff. The first was a somevrhat handsome young man, 
who could not have been older than twenty-five. He possessed 
a sprightly figure, which gave evidence of strength as well as 
vivacity ; his features were of good shape, even amounting to 
symmetry ; his hair was long and dark, and his eye was of 
the blackest. Two others of the party were rough, and even 
villainous-looking men, of from thirty to forty. The fourth 
was a man past the prime of life, who lay in a half-reclining 
position in the boat. His dark hair, which was beginning 
to be interspersed with gray, was all disordered, tangled and 
2 


14 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


matted together, here and there, with blood, which flowed 
from a wound in the head, and trickled over his face. He 
was in a state of insensibility ; his face was very pale, and 
he frequently uttered deep groans. 

Footsteps were frequently heard descending the steep hill, 
and a stout, muscular, villainous-looking fellow, in a brimlesa 
fur cap and short jacket, made his appearance. 

“Hilloa, Bill! Coast clear?” said the young man, still 
sitting in the boat. 

‘'Yes, captain,” replied Bill, “it’s all right. Didn’t ye 
Bee my signal ?” 

“ Yes ; but we cannot observe too much caution ; for, in 
case ” 

“ Hilloa 1 ” suddenly ejaculated Bill, interrupting. “ What 
in Satan have ye got there ?” 

“Why, Bill,” replied the young man, “you see things did 
not turn out quite so favorable as I could have wished.” 

“ How so? You got the cash, I hope?” 

“ Oh yes, that is all right; but ” 

“ What 1” 

“ The old fool recognized me !" 

“ Then why did n’t ye finish him on the spot ?” 

“ Bill,” returned the young man addressed as captain, 
“ how often have I told you that I would never san'^tion such 
proceedings, if avoidable ?” 

“Wery well then, captain,” said Bill, with red^^nation, “I 
never de-mon-strate when you express your ’tent ions.” 

“ Are the Busters up in the cave ?” asked the captain. 

“Yes; both asleep. They stood guard till tv/o o’clock, 
and I’ve been up since, waitin’ for you. But Low dil It 
happen ?” 

“ I’ll tell you in good time ; but first lay hold of old 
Harry — Sam and Joe will help you — and take him up to the 
cave, if possible.” 

The wounded man was lifted from the boat in no very 
tender manner, and Bill, with the aid of Samuel and Joseph, 


THE WOUNDED FARMER. 


15 


proceeded to carry the almost inanimate form up the steej 
acclivity. The way up was winding and tedious; and bu* 
for wide steps cut in the rocky hillside, it would have re- 
quired actual climbing to ascend. The party had ascended 
to the height of thirty or forty feet, when Bill, who did net 
seem at all pl'^^ased with the state of affairs, impatiently 
growled out : 

“Darn It alli Yoxx awk’ard fellers is only in the way I 
Give me die old feller to myself, and if I don’t take him up 
to the cave in two minutes, my name aint Bill Hardin ! ** 

The others, thereupon, relinquished the whole burden t 
the redoubtable Bill, who lifted the body to his shoulder, as 
though it were a small sack of oats, and, with muscular 
strides, stalked up the rough stairway, and reached the point 
in question certainly within two minutes, proving conclu- 
sively that his cognomen was Hardin, and that his given 
name wms William. 

The point attained was a shelf, not more than six feet 
wide and twice as long, in the side of the hill facing the 
river, and about four hundred feet above the surface of the 
wmter. Here Bill deposited his groaning burden. There 
was no sign of a cave. The place was hidden from observa- 
tion by trees, bushes, vines and overhanging foliage. 

“ Well, what are ye goin’ to do with him, captain ?” asked 
Bill, as the remainder of the party came up. 

“ I scarcely know,” replied the captain ; “ for the present 
put him in the cave, and see that he does not escape. It 
will never do for him to disclose what he sees, here, in case 
he should recover. I don’t think he can recover, though.” 

“ Well, boys,” said Bill, addressing Sam and Joe, the other 
two villains, “ slide him in.” 

Bill thrust aside some thick vines that covered the rocky 
•walls which rose almost perpendicularly from the shelf to an 
additional height of two hundred feet, and disclosed a small 
opening, which was no other than the entrance to a spacious 
cavern in the hillside. The orifice was only large enough to 


16 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


admit the person of a man in a recumbent position. Bill 
entered to receive the wounded man, while Sam and Joe 
proceeded to discharge the duty of (as Bill expressed it) 
“sliding” him in. That done, the whole party entered; 
after which the vines were again carefully adjusted, so as 
to conceal the entrance ; and had any wandering juvenile 
chanced that way a moment after, clambering among the 
rugged rocks in quest of birds’ nests, he would have been as 
unconscious and unsuspecting of the presence of those terri- 
ble robbers and their den as though he were asleep in his bed 
ID some distant farm-house. 

The cavern was about thirty feet in length by fifteen in 
breadth, while its rough, irregular ceiling of rocks was about 
twenty-five feet high. The floor, consisting of solid rock, was 
quite smooth, and almost level, while innumerable fissures 
and ill-shapen recesses pierced the walls. In one of these 
recesses, which took an upright position, was established a 
“ fireplace,” while a dim ray of light, shining down through 
a long, narrow aqueduct, slowed that there was just a chance 
for the smoke to escape. Two rough-looking, ill-clad men 
were lying asleep, on a pallet of straw, in an obscure corner 
when our party entered. 

Such is a brief picture of the “ Robbers’ Den.” 

“ Now, cap’n,” said Bill, when the wounded man had been 
laid upon some straw near the damp wall, “ how was it?” 

“ ril tell you. We moved up the river about three miles, 
landed on the Greene county shore, concealed our boat, and 
made for the road, which was but half a mile or so distant. 
It was pretty dark, you know, and we had no path to follow; 
so we went up the hill, which was neither very high nor very 
steep, and striking through a thick wood, soon came out on 
the road. There we waited. It was about ten o’clock then, 
and I felt sure he had not passed yet. Hour after hour 
passed, and still he did not come. At last the moon rose, 
and soon made everything bright. About three o’clock I 
was just thinking that he .must have passed, or taken some 


THE WOUNDED FARMER. 


17 


other road, when I heard him coming. T fold Sam and Joe 
to spring from the shade of the fence when he should come 
up, knock him from his horse, and get the money, while I 
should post myself six or eight steps ahead to catch the 
horse. My idea was to tie the horse to the fence near by, 
so that old Harry could find him when he should recover. 
But when he reached us, as ill luck would have it, Joe 
slipped and fell as he rushed into the road; and as I sprang 
out to seize the bridle-rein, the moon shone full upon my 
face, and old White called out, * Phil. Kirk !* just as Sam 
struck him from his horse. Sam, seeing that he recognized 
me, struck him several blows with his club before I f;ould 
stop him, and I fear it is the last of old Harry White.** 

“ What become o’ the hoss?” asked Bill. 

“ He ran away, for I failed to seize the bridle-rein. So, 
fearing that a party might soon come in search of the rider, 
I told Sam and Joe to carry him to the l>oat. They did 
BO, and it would require a sharp detective to track us here.” 

“ You got the tin, of course ?” queried Bill. 

“Yes,” replied the captain, “here it is;” and he produced 
a canvas bag, a glance at whose exterior was sufficient to 
convince any rational man that it contained coin or buttons. 

“ How much, d’ye think?” asked Bill. 

“ About a thousand, I should say, if it is aU gold ;** and, 
turning the contents out on the table, the captain proceeded 
to ascertain the exact sum in dollars, which proved to b6 
eleven hundred. 

“ A good night’s work ! Eh, Cap.?’* 

“Yes,” said the captain of the robbers, abstractedly, glanc- 
ing uneasily at the form of the suffering victim; “ but I wish 
things had turned out as I intended. I am sorry now. Bill, 
that you did not go instead of me. Old White don’t know 
you, and if he had seen you it could have n^ade no differ- 
ence ; but me — well, it’s done now, and he must 
this placed 

“Not alive, anyhow,” suggested Bill. 

2 


18 


THE WHITE E0CK3. 


The young man did not reply. He was, apparently, in 
deep thought; and there was anxiety — almost remorse — 
written on his face. A d^ep groan from the wounded man 
startled him. 

“ He’s a beginnin’ to revive, captain,” said Joe, who sat 
near the wounded man. 

The captain arose and approached the sufferer. The latter 
slowly opened his eyes, and his lips moved. 

“ Water ! Oh give me water I ” he groaned. 

A tin cup was applied to his lips, from which he eagerly 
drank. He then gazed wildly around him — stared at the 
strange faces, at the strange place, at the rough walls, and 
dark recesses of the cave. 

“ Where am I?” he exclaimed, wildly. 

“Don’t be uneasy,” Bill mockingly replied, by way of 
quieting the unfortunate man. 

“ Where am I ? What has happened?” persistently asked 
the sufferer. 

“ You’re safe, old boy,” returned Bill. ** Don’t git skeered. 
You got to make this yer home ; so, make yerself as uncom- 
fortable as possible. Yer only got yer head cracked a leetle.* 

“ Bill!” said the captain, reproachfully. 

Henry White started on hearing the captain’s voice, and 
bent his eyes upon him. 

“ Philip Kirke !” he exclaimed. “ You here ! You ! Oh, 
I thought tAat part only a dream — only a dream I But I see 
it all now! I’ve been robbed — murdered 1 Yes, murdered!’* 
he almost screamed. “ And by you, Philip Kirke ! By you I 
Oh, Mary ! Mary I Mary !” And he sank pale and quiver- 
ing upon his miserable bed. 

Philip Kirke had started back on meeting the eye of the 
honest old man, whose confidence he had betrayed, and 
v/hose murder^er he was. He now slunk away, and left the 
cavern. For several hours he remained without, wandering 
among the rocks that clung to the bluff, once almost falling 
over the brink of a steep precipice. But a harrowing shadow 


THE WOUNDED FARIVIER. 


19 


followed him, and he could not flee from it. It was con- 
ncience. Oh if last night’s work could be undone I Eobbery 
is bad enough ; but that honest old man must die — then, 
Philip Kirke, you are a murderer I 

When he again returned to the cave he was haggard and 
pale. 

“ How is he?” he asked, hoarsely. 

“ Asleep,” replied one of the robbers, who had remained in 
the cave during the past night, and who was now up and 
watching by the dying man. 

“ How long has he been sleeping ?” asked Kirke, ap- 
proaching. 

“ Ever since I’ve been up.” 

“ Poor old White ! it*s all up with him,” gaid Kirke. 

“ Glad of it,” said Bill, coming that moment from a distant 
part of the cave ; “ glad of it, for dead men tell no—” 

“ Bill, I tell you 1 don’t want any man’s blood on my 
head, and, least of all, the blood of old Henry White. Had 
I foreseen this, I never would have gone out to waylay him. 
I don’t mind robbing the man in whose house I have spent 
many a happy hour — at whose table I have sat time after 
time — who has extended to me every hospitality, and even 
confidence ; but to murder him for his gold 1 Oh !— Well, 
it can’t be helped now — it’s done I” he said, with energy, 
and with the air of a man who was struggling with con- 
science, and just beginning to gain a slight advantage — ^‘it’s 
done now, and, whatever may be the result, I’ll not make 
myself uncomfortable about it.” 

“ You’d be a fool if you did,” observed Bill. 

“ I never meant to murder h^m,” continued Kirke, by 
way of giving conscience J.e de grace^ “and if he 

dies— — ” 

“ Which I’ll bet my hat he will,” put in the unfeeling 
'^Mlliam. 

“ why, I’ll consider it but a stroke of ill-fortune, 

and ” 


20 


THE WHITE BOCKS. 


“ That he orter had better luck,” interrupted Bill. 

“ Well, I’m sorry he hadn’t. “However,” said the cap^ 
tain, by way of dismissing, for good and all, the question at 
issue between himself and conscience, “ whatever is to be 
will be; so, it was no fault of mine.’* 

“ Exactly,” agreed Bill. “ I knowed you was a sensible 
feller. So, take a drink, and let’s have breakfast, for it’s 
about time, and all’s ready.” 

Bill produced a stone jug, containing what he termed 
“rye tea;” also a tincup, and the captain of the robbers 
suddenly placed himself outside about a gill. 

“ That's the way to keep up your sperrits,” said Bill. 
“ First let a few o’ them kind o’ sperrits go down, and up’ll 
come your'n. Ha, ha !” and William Hardin laughed im- 
moderately at his own wit. 

The robbers now assembled for breakfast. As they sub- 
sisted on the farmers of the neighboring settlements, theii 
larder was always full of every variety of edibles ; and as 
Bill prided himself, and with some propriety, on his ability 
to superintend systematically the cooking department, they 
lived well. Whatever was to be found on any farmer’s table 
graced theirs, and that, too, in some profusion. 


CHAPTFTl II. 

DEATH IN THE CAVE. 

The robbers were but six in number. Philip Kirke, 
whom they called capta'n, >al lied from Ohio about two 
years previously, after 1 L'i. g a man in a duel. In Pitts- 
burg he fell in with a gang of counterfeiters, became one 
of their number, and passed some months very profitably 


DEATH IN THE CAVE. 


21 


The eang being at length broken up — thanks to the sagacity 
of a certain well-known detective of that time — most of its 
members were arrested and punished ; but Philip, with four 
common thieves of the fraternity, escaped. The five ruffian? 
resolved to direct their steps up the Monongahela river, 
establish an institution of their own, and make frequent 
descents upon the rural settlements. 

Two of these individuals were Sam and Joe, whom we 
have mentioned ; and the remaining two were brothers of 
the name of Brewster — which name was rendered, by their 
companions in crime, Buster and, accordingly, they were 
always spoken of as the “Busters.*' Their Christian names, 
if they ever had any, were scarcely known to their com- 
panions, and almost forgotten by themselves. 

.These five promising gentlemen first established their 
headquarters in an old dilapidated house, about three miles 
from the present site of Brownsville, which was then but 
a little village. They had not been there long till it \va 3 
their fortune to contribute to the general welfare of the 
people at large, by rescuing a notorious murderer, wffiose 
name was William Hardin, from the hands of two consta- 
bles who had arrested him, as it chanced, near their ren- 
dezvous. It occurred in the daytime; and, leaving the two 
thwarted officials for dead, the whole party fled from that 
locality, directing their steps still up the river. A few days 
alter they, by mere chance, discovered the cave in the hill- 
side overlooking the river, which they at once adopted ai 
their rendezvous. 

A more favorable spot cculd not well be conceived. There 
were rich settlements in tnat locality; but just here the 
ecnintry consisted of wild, rough hills and uncleared land; 
9nd there was not a habitation within a mile and a half. 
The country beyond the river, at this point, partook of the 
eame nature, and it was highly improbable that any human 
being should, for some years to ensue, discover their retreat. 

There was a little village, situated on the right bank of 


22 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


the Monongahela, about four miles above the robbers* den, 
known at that time by the name of Weston. Thriving 
farmers occupied the surrounding country. They lived con- 
tented and happy in the midst of “ homely joys and destiny 
obscure.” Few of them had ever been beyond the limits of 
their own native county; and they lived in blissful igno- 
rance of great cities and their innumerable vices. The extent 
of their traveling was, perhaps, an occasional visit to Wes- 
ton, for the purpose of selling their produce, or trading it 
for necessary articles. Some of the more enterprising occa- 
sionally took a trip to Pittsburg with a flatboat load of 
grain, or a drove of cattle or sheep. These were regarded 
as useful men, inasmuch as they bought up the products of 
the country at fair prices, shipping them to Pittsburg, and 
kept money in continual circulation. Among these was 
Henry White, who was much esteemed tor his honesty and 
enterprise. 

For more than a year the good people of Weston and 
vicinity had been conscious of the presence of a band of 
thieves. Sheep had been stolen from their fields, horses 
from their stables, wheat and corn from their granaries, 
poultry from their farm-yards, hams from their cellars, and 
even valuables and money from their houses ; and not un- 
fi'equently had travelers been waylaid, knocked down and 
Kjbbed. Many were the surmises of the country jeople 
as to who the robbers were, whence they had come, and 
where they held forth. The strangest part of it was, that 
lU't one of them had ever been seen. The traveler had jell 
them, and the farmer had missed his property, but no one 
had ever enjoyed the privileo^e of gazing upon one of tho 
desperadoes. Some expressed it as their deliberate opinion 
that the robbers were a species of wild men, who inhabited 
the fields and woods, or the adjacent mountains; some be- 
lieved that they were rascals from Pittsburg, who made 
frequent excursions to the rural districts; while othiis 
Uiking into consideration their almost constart presence, 


DEATH IN THE CAVE. 


25 


argued tliat they must have a place of rendezvous not far off 
— most probably in the mountains. It was clear that there 
was an organized band of marauders somewhere, and that 
they were very attentive to the people of the vicinity of 
W eston. 

One of the first victims of the robbers was a young man, 
who occasionally made his appearance at Weston. He was 
from Pittsburg, and came to the village in the character of a 
trader; sometimes purchasing grain, and at other times 
making collections of choice cattle for the markets. He made 
his head-quarters at the village tavern, to which he returned 
one evening a little later than usual, with his clothes torn, 
disordered, and covered with dust, and several bruises on his 
head and face, among which was a delightful one just below 
the eye. He stated that about dark, while leisurely return- 
ing from a neighboring farmer’s, he had suddenly received 
a blow on the head from a heavy weapon, dealt by an unseen 
hand ; that before he could turn he received another, which 
sent him stunned and reeling to the earth; that he knew 
nothing for a short period, and that when he recovered he 
found his pockets turned inside out, and his money gone. 
Luckily he had taken but little money with him that morn- 
ing, and his loss was not great. When we state that the 
name of this unfortunate (?) young man was Philip Kirke, 
the reader will readily discern that the whole affair was a 
well-acted farce. 

Frequent robberies occurred after this, and at the time of 
the commencement of our story, the secret robbers had become 
a very terror to the people of the settlement. 

There was one redeeming trait in their conduct : they never 
murdered. Many had been knocked down and. robbed by 
the unseen brigands, but none had been killed; sometimes 
they were not even stunned; but their pockets^ were rifled in 
a twinkling, and ere they could spring up and look about 
them the cunning assailants had vanished. 

After such occasions parties sometimes hastily formed, and, 


21 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


armed with rifles and pistols, went in search of the offenders, 
but always with the same result — to find no trace of them. 
Armed parties had frequently searched the adjacent moun- 
tains and wild river hills, in the hope of discovering theii 
rendezvous, but in vain. 

The marauders had at times extended their depredatioiifc 
to the left shore of the river, but they confined their opera* 
tions chiefly to the Fayette county side. 

All their depredations were attributable to Captain Philip 
Kirke and his party of five, who inhabited the well-concealed 
den on the face of the steep river-hill. Kirke frequently 
visited Weston as a trader; occasionally, indeed, purchasing 
a small flock of sheep and driving them to Pittsburg, by 
which he, of course, never lost anything. In the meantime 
he managed to communicate almost daily with his com- 
panions at the den, frequently giving them information to 
facilitate their operations, and the news generally. Even 
while staying in the village, he sometimes participated in 
adventures himself, totally unsuspected by the victims whom 
he met daily, face to face. 

On one occasion, he and a wealthy farmer, with prospects 
of a speculation, purchased a large lot of cattle, drove them 
to Pittsburg, and sold them at a good price; but while re- 
turning to Weston they were waylaid and robbed of the 
whole proceeds, much to the sympathy of the people of that 
locality. It is needless to observe that the robbery had been 
arranged by Philip Kirke with his friends at the cave. 

A week prior to the events narrated in the first chapter, 
Philip Kirke, while in the village, had met Henry White 
(with whom he was a great favorite), who confided to him 
that he was about to visit Pittsburg, to get a sum of money 
that was due him for a lot of grain that he had sold there ; 
that he expected the money to be paid him in gold ; that he 
was going to travel on horseback, and that he should return 
by a road on the opposite side of the river, as a precaution 
against the terrible robbers, who seldom visited Greene 


DEATH IN THE CAVE. 


25 


county. How little did tlie unfortunate farmer imagine 
that he was confiding this secret to the very chief of that 
band of robbers! He even mentioned, casually, the very 
night jon which he expected to arrive at home again. 
And Henry White proceeded on his last journey to Pitts- 
burg. 

Two days before the anticipated return of the 'farmer, 
Philip Kirke, “ having received an important letter from a 
rich uncle,” somewhere in the universe, announced his inten- 
tion of leaving Weston for a few months, much to the regret 
of the belles of that vicinity, by whom he was regarded as an 
extremely fascinating young man. He accordingly took his 
departure on foot, leaving his effects at the village tavern, 
and stating that he would surely return at the expiration of 
two or three months, for the purpose of buying a large 
amouni of the new irop of wheat. 

He at once made his way to the den and informed his 
companions of the rich prize that awaited them. It was 
deemed expedient that three of their number should under- 
take the adventure; and it was agreed that Sam and Joe 
should be of the number, and that the third should be a 
guiding-spirit, in the person of either the captain or Bill, as 
o pr :^caution against blunders. It was at first decided that 
Bill should conduct the affair, but this decision was revoked, 
on second thought, by the captain, who, knowing him to be a 
most hard-hearted and unscrupulous villain, and fearing that 
he might wantonly murder the victim, concluded to go him- 
self leaving that gentleman and the Busters to guard the 
castie, watch for the return of the expedition, and signal if 
all was right and the coast clear. This precaution was 
always taken on similar occasions, notwithstanding the seem- 
ing security -of the place; for ‘‘The wicked flee where no 
man pursueth, but the righteous are bold as a lion.” Captain 
Kirke did go, and the reader knows the result. 

Henry White lay in the robbers’ den, in a strange, unnatu- 
ral, uneai^y ah^op, unccnscious of all around him — unconscious 


26 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


of the presence of the villains in whose den he was a prisoner 
— alike unconscious of his own suffering, and unmindful of 
the mental agony of those who awaited him anxiously, yet 
durst not dream of his fate. And thus the day , passed 
quietly away. 

Without, the day was mild and beautiful. The sky was 
clear ; 1;he sun shone forth pleasantly, and looked down with 
his wonted cheerfulness on green fields of growing wheat, or 
on pastures where sheep and cattle grazed ; on cornfields in 
which farmers and their sons were at work ; on farm-houses, 
gardens, little villages (and, perhaps, a great way off, on 
busy, stirring cities); on extensive woodlands and wild 
mountains ; and on no spot did he gaze more smilingly than 
on the placid Monongahela, as it swept smoothly by the base 
of that tall bluff in w^hich, secure from honest eyes, was 
concealed the Kobbers’ Den. 

The birds were never more merry than on that day. How 
cheerily they sung, and how nimbly they hopped from 
branch to branch among the green foliage that covered thj 
face of that wild hill I What musical notes they uttered 
near the mouth of the cave ! At one time a little songster 
actually alighted among the vines at the entrance of the 
dismal den, and chattered away so merrily for several 
minutes, that it was almost impossible to realize that misery 
and death were so near. 

Henry White lay till near nightfall, with scarcely a oign 
of returning consciousness. Before dark, Bill, moved more 
by a sense of curiosity than by any philanthropic feeling, 
washed the blood from the head of the wounded man, in 
order to discover the nature and extent of his hurt, whv;Xi 
even his limited knowledge of surgery enabled him to ascer- 
tain that the skull was fractured. He imparted that fact to 
Kirke, who during the day had had frequent recourse to the 
Btone jug, and who gruffly replied that his (Bill’s) skull would 
have beau cracked, too, if it had been favored with sucu a 
blow. 


DEATH IN THE CAVE. 


27 


It had made the whole party feel at least uncomfortable, 
to have a man lying during the whole day in their domicile, 
in a dying condition. If Bill had had his own way about it, 
jis he unreservedly stated to Sam, Joe, and the Busters, he 
would soon have put an end to the affair; but the captain’s 
word was law, and Bill, though regarded as second in com- 
mand, knew that there was nothing for him but to obey. 
He had often remonstrated with the captain on what he con- 
sidered a foolish whim, namely, that of never taking life if it 
could be avoided — stating that his motto would be, never to 
allow a man to escape with his life if it could be helped ; add- 
ing that this manly course was at the bottom of all success 
in their vocation, and that, until such course were universally 
adopted, the profession could not be expected to attain any 
reasonable degree of prosperity. But the captain was firm 
in carrying out his principles, and steadfastly opposed con- 
necting murder with robbery; maintaining that they were 
two separate and distinct departments. 

Frequent discussions arose between Bill and the captain. 
The former endeavored to impress the latter with a sense of 
his error by pointing out shining examples, such as Sweeny 
Todd ; but the captain retorted by referring to Claude Duval, 
Dick Turpin, and others, who never killed men except in 
self-defence — which usually had the effect of silencing Bill 
for the time. 

When night came a candle was lighted and set upon the 
rough table, a blanket having first been suspended at the 
opening, in order th^t no tell-tale ray of light should escape. 
Henry White now began to show signs of returning conscious- 
ness. He was heard to groan deeply, and now and then to 
mutter some inarticulate words. But he did not move till 
near ten o’olock, when, to the astonishment of all, he abruptly 
rose to a sitting posture, and stared wildly around him. 

“ Where am I ?” he exclaimed. 

No one replied. 

Oh, I remember,” he said half musingly. “ Yes, I re« 


28 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


remember, I remember! Ah, Philip Kirke 1 Eobber ! mtif- 
derer I traitor 1 I curse you 1 I’ll curse you with my last 
breath 1 You ’ve robbed my poor daughter of her father 1 
Oh Mary 1 Mary 1 Mary 1 Take me to her,” he resumed, 
Boftening. ** Take me to her 1 Let me see her once more 1 
It will soon be too late! Take me to her! Let me see her 
before I die ! Oh Mary ! Mary ! if I could see you once 
more ! Ah, Philip Kirke, I read you now ! I see through 
your treacherous eyes into your black soul ! It is for this I 
received you into my house — into my confidence ! to be mur- 
dered by you, and laid down to die in this miserable den, 
with no one near me but you and your heartless, blood- 
thirsty companions ! But oh,” he went on, vehemently, 
‘‘take me to my daughter, that I may see her again, and 
I’ll forgive you ! I’ll not speak a word of what I have 
Been! No one shall know who has robbed and murdered 
me ! I will not tell what a villain you are I Only let me 
Bee Mary once more ! Oh Mary, Mary, Mary ! what will be- 
come of you now ?” 

He sank back exhausted, but seemed to retain his con- 
sciousness. He breathed hard for a few moments, then, in a 
weak voice, asked for water. A cup of water was placed to 
his lips, which he drained ; he then sank back upon his mis- 
erable couch, still glancing wildly about him. 

All this time Kirke had stood gazing upon the dying man, 
without uttering a word ; he now turned away, and seated 
himself in a distant corner of the cave, muttering as he did 
BO, “ Can’t be helped now.” 

Ah, what poor consolation ! Yet it was all he could say 
in answer to the voice of conscience. The possibility of 
White’s recovery was evidently out of the question — death 
was upon him. • 

For more than an hour the sufferer lay perfectly motion- 
less, gazing vacantly from one spot to another. Now his 
eyes would rest on a bucket or tincup that hung against the 
wall, barely seen by the dim light that burned within \lie 


DEATH IH THE CAVE. 


2t? 

cave ; then he would- look for a minute or two upon some 
rude shelf or crevice in the wall; then his eyes would wan- 
der to remote corners or dark recesses of the cave, but not 
once did they close. 

Not a word was spolien. 

It was near twelve o’clock, when the dying man suddenly 
sprang almost ‘‘o his feet, and, supporting himself against the 
wall, stared wildly toward the entrance of the cave, tremb- 
ling from head to foot, as if from terror. 

“Why, Mary !” he whispered, hoarsely, “ you here ?’* 

Kirke glanced uneasily toward the blanket, as though he 
expected to see it thrust aside by the farmer’s daughter ; but 
nothing of the kind happened ; and it was clear that poor 
Henry White was delirious. 

“You here, Mary ?” he continued. “Child of my heart, 
why don’t you come to me? Why stand there? No, no I 
you cannot save me now ! Away ! away I you are in danger I 
Fly, Mary ! ’t will soon be too late 1 Child, there ’s a fright- 
ful precipice behind you ! Why do you not move ? Why 
look so strangely ? There ’s a murderer ready to hurl you 
over ? Who is he? I can’t see his face ! Fly, Mary I Don’t 
let him touch you ! Ha ! he puts forth his hand ! Oh, 
he’ll murder my child 1 Why don’t you fly ? Oh, too late I 
too late ! she is gone ! Murderer ! murderer ! why have you 
killed my child ? Who are you ? Who — ha ! I see 1 I see ! 
It’s Kirke! yes, Kirke! Oh Mary! Mary! my lost Mary 1“ 

For a moment the form of Henry White remained mo- 
tionless; the lips ceased to move; the breath no longer 
flowed ; the face grew ashy pale ; the eye became flxed and 
glassy, and the inanimate lump of clay fell upon the straw 
on which it had lain before — the spark of life extinct. 

Kirke arose, took the candle from the table, and ap- 
proached the corpse ; but shuddered and started back aa 
the cold, glassy stare of the murdered man met his eye. 

“ It’s over, he muttered through his chattering teeth ; “ it 
can’t be helped now*’* 


80 


THE WHITE ROCKS* 


CHAPTER III. 

THE DAUGHTER. 

Mary White was the only child of her good old father. 
When she was a little girl of eight or ten years her mother 
had died, after a short illness ; since which a maiden aunt (a 
sister of her father) had made her home with them, superin- 
tending the household affairs. Mary was the pet and p>ride 
of her father, and, indeed, of the whole community. Her 
innocent, unoffending manners, together with her beauty, 
won for her many friends. As she grew into womanhood, 
if tliere was any change, it was only a clearer development 
of her attractions. Her education, considering the limited 
facilities then and there presented, was as good as could be 
expected, extending to mathematics, geography, and a tho- 
rough knowledge of the English language. 

At the time of which we write, Mary had just reached 
her twentieth year ; and there was not, in the vicinity of 
Weston, a prettier or more intelligent girl. Several rustic 
youths had already proposed to lay at her feet what houses, 
lands, sheep, horses, cattle and agricultural implements they 
expected to fall heir to ; but Mary had steadfastly avowed 
her purpose to remain with her father, who was all the world 
to her, and to whom she was all the world. Her Aunt Eliza 
(such was her name) highly applauded this course, and was 
often heard to observe, that if all of the fairer sex would only 
follow such bright examples, it would soon bring those be- 
nighted creatures of the masculine gender to a sense of their 
unworthiness and utter insignificance. 

Mary, notwithstanding her desperate resolve to ignore the 
bliss of matiiraonial life, did not pine at home like a caged 


THE DAUGHTER. 


81 


bird ; sbe lost no reasonable opportunity of enjoying herself, 
like a sensible girl that she was. 

None had been more attentive to Miss Mary White than 
the dashing, good-looking and evidently thrifty trader from 
Pittsburg, Philip Kirke ; nor, indeed, had, the attentions of 
any one been received with a better grace. Mary was, con- 
sequently, envied by some, as there was not a maiden in the 
settlement who did not think Philip Kirke — oh yes, by all 
odds — the handsomest young man it had ever been her pri- 
vilege to look upon, and who would not have been exceed- 
ingly flattered, not to say delighted, by such gallant devoirs 
as he paid Mary. But Philip failed to see attractions in any 
but Miss White. At social parties or dances, which he was 
just beginning to attend, Philip showed a decided preference 
for her company; and he began to be almost persuaded that 
he loved her — if such a villain can ever experience that 
feeling. 

There was one young man, the son of a rich farmer, who 
would have given half his existence for Mary ; and all his 
interest in the “old man’s” farm for the pleasure of “walk- 
ing into” that “ city chap,” Phil. Kirke. His name was 
George Roland. He was a good-looking young man, a good 
fellow, the best shot, the best horseman, and the best jumper 
and wrestler about Weston. Even Philip Kirke was only 
second at such arts in a crowd where George was. There 
had been several trials of skill between them at the village, 
resulting invariably in favor of Roland. It was well known 
that they were rivals for the favor of Mary White, and that 
they entertained no very friendly sentiments toward each 
other; and it was confidently expected that a “row” would 
one day take place, with those two gentlemen as principals. 
And such a consummation became the more probable since a 
wrestling-match between them, early in the spring of which 
we write, had resulted in Kirke’s being brought in fierce col- 
lision with the green-sward four times out of five. 

Although George had but few enemies, Philip Kirke was 


32 


THE WHITE ROCItS. 


not without friends in and about Weston. Being of easy 
and unreserved manners, and quite lavish of money, he was, 
indeed, popular with the majority of the young men; and, 
being apparently a thorough business man, he was highly 
esteemed by the farmers, with whom he frequently dealt. 
With something of city polish, too, he was regarded as a 
killing ” fellow by not only the pretty country lasses, but 
a’so by their good mammas. 

Ah, how deceitful is outward show! and what blackness it 
may cover up and conceal from the eyes of men 1 Here is 
a villain of the worst kind — a robber, a murderer — who has 
easily worked his way into the confidence, and even to the 
hearts, of an honest and unsuspecting community. . How 
they would shudder were they permitted to take a single 
glance at the interior of this whited sepulchre 1 But wait I 
The day is coming on the swift wings of Time when you, 
Philip Kirke, will be unmasked before these wronged people, 
whose confidence you have abused, and they will see you as 
you are 1 

It is that same beautiful May morning on which Henry 
White was carried to the robbers’ den to die. The sun has 
now risen far above the summit of the mountains which lie 
a few miles to the eastward, and the dew has already disap- 
peared from the blades of grass and from the leaves of the 
bushes and trees. Farmers are busy in the fields, and their 
wives and daughters at the dairies or in the gardens. Every 
where the same rural scenes meet the eye ; the barn, the 
farm-house, the lawn, the garden, the green meadow, the 
cornfield, the wheatfield, the wood, the hill and the valley. 
Some of the farm-houses are built of stone, some of logs, a 
few of bricks, and many of framework, covered with smooth 
boards, painted or whitewashed. 

Although there is but little variation in the general ap- 
pearance and surroundings of the many farm-houses which 
dot the rich country, there is one in particular, situated a 
mile east of the village of Weston in a visit to which we 


THE DAUGHTER. 


83 


most earnestly and respectfully solicit the reader’s company. 
It IS the home of Henry White. It is of cottage st^le, its 
snowy whiteness half hidden by green vines, which hav® 
climbed up the gables to the roof, and spread out their 
branches till they hang from the eves, and peer in at the 
Ijwer windows. It stands on the face of a gentle slope, and 
there is a grassy lawn in front, inclining toward the public 
road. In the rear is a neat little garden, full of plants and 
flowers; on the right, a little way off, is the barn, with its 
huge stack of straw in front; on the left an extensive 
orchard, in a corner of which — ah, liveliest scene of aill — 
stands a straw-covered shed, that shelters a row of well-lilled 
beehives. The clover that grows in the orchard, and in some 
adjacent fields, is just blooming, and the busy bees are out 
in force, and humming merrily from blossom io blossom. 
Still beyond, where the ground rises higher, is a wood of 
lolty trees, which wave to and fro when the storm ap- 
proaches, like the tall masts of a ship that is riding upon 
the waves. 

A young man approaches ; he enters the lawn by the gate, 
and walks slowly up the path toward the cottage. It is 
George Roland. He looks happy when he sees that Mary 
is standing at the open door, which is shaded from the sun 
by a little porch, over which the vines are trailing ; and he 
advances more rapidly. 

“ Good morning, Mary. I hope I am not intruding?” says 
George, merrily. • 

“How do you do, George. Intruding? Oh no; I am 
always glad to see you. Walk in.” 

“ No, thank you ; it is pleasant, and I will take a seat oi! 
this bench;” and George seats himself on a bench that standi 
on the little porch. “ Has your father returned ?” 

Not yet.” 

Did you not expect him last night ?” asks George, in 
some surprise. 

“ Yes, I even waited for him till after twelve ; but I con- 


84 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


eluded at last that he must have postponed his coming a 
day. He will surely come to-day or to-night.” 

“ Then I will return to-morrow. I expect him to bring 
some tidings of an uncle of mine who lives in Pittsburg, and 
from whom I have not heard for a long time. But, Mary, 
you look a little anxious ; pray sit down ; there is room on 
this bench for two,” says George, and Mary takes a seat 
beside him, much to his delight. 

“Why,* George,” she says, “you know father said he would 
come home last night, and he is always very punctual ; and, 
to tell the truth, I am more anxious than you imagine. I 
almost dread that something may have happened him.” 

“Oh, nonsense! Your father knows how to take care of 
himself. What could happen him, I should like to know ? 
His horse is not a wild one, and — ” 

“ But there are so many robbers about, and — however,” 
sa/s Mary, reassuring herself, “ he told me he would return 
by ihe Washington road, beyond the river, and cross at 
Wesim.” 

“ Ok, then you need have no fear as to the robbers. They 
Beldom visit Greene county,” says George, confidently. 

“ True. It is very foolish of me to be alarmed, I know. I 
do not really imagine that any harm has befallen him.” 
And Mary grows more cheerful; she forgets her anxious 
fears ; they talk of commonplace things ; they chat merrily 
together ; they smile and laugh — ^yes, her ringing laugh is 
even heard. 

Half an hour passes right happily. By and by there is a 
brief silence — of half a minute, perhaps. 

“ Mary, says George, abruptly, “ I am told that that gay 
young Kirke has left us again.” 

“ I believe he has,” is Mary’s reply. There is a per<^epti- 
ble change in her countenance. 

“ Well, I don’t wish him ill,” observes George; “but if he 
should never come back I have not the most distant idea 
that 1 should die of grief.” 


THE DAUGHTER. 


35 


“I don’t know that I should, either,” reports Mary; and 
it is evident, from her tone and manner, that she is not quite 
sure she should n’t. 

“ Come now, Mary, you know you like him,” says George 
banteringly ; “ he is such a good-looking fellow.” 

“I like everybody,” Mary replies, evasively, and with 
affected lightness. 

Oh, these country girls ! When they are in love, how they 
do strive to conceal the fact. 

“ Well, Mary,” says George, ** I don’t think much of these 
gay, showy fellows from the city. Much good is not apt tc 
come of making love to them. I know a young fellow,” hs 
continues, after a brief pause, “perhaps no better than he 
should be, a little wild and a little rough, who loves you 
more than Phil. Kirke ever will ; one who would suffer any 
pain to bring you enjoyment, and would freely give his poor 
life to purchase a happy one for you.” 

“ Ah,” says Mary, half mockingly, “ he must be a very dis- 
interested young man. Who can it be ? Tell me.” 

“ Oh, you know who it is,” says George, gravely. 

“ No I don’t, really.” 

“Can you not guess?” There is something sad in his 
voice as he asks this. 

“Let me see,” says Mary, gayly as ever; “let me see. 
Now, you dont mean Jerry Armstrong!” she exclaims, her 
face brightening up with a roguish smile. 

Jerry Armstrong is a poor, half-witted fellow, who resides 
at the foot of the mountain. 

“ No, Mary ; I see you mock me. You well know who it 
is. Oh, Mary, you know it is George Poland!” And he 
seizes her hand and kisses it passionately. “ It is George 
Poland who loves you, Mary — loves you, adores you. I 
know he is not so handsome as Philip Kirke — not so dash- 
ing; does not wear such fine clothes, such bright jewelry, 
and such a valuable watch. But I — I — I — can — lick him !” 
And poor George, having exhausted all the eloquent wordi 


36 


THE WHITE ROCKS, 


he can command, and even commenced on the non-eloquent, 
throws his arms wildly about the maiden’s neck, draws her 
face to his, and 

‘‘George!” exclaims Mary, half alarmed by his vehement 
manner. “ George, some one may see you 1 Don’t 1” 

“ I don’t care 1 Everybody knows I love you 1 You know 

Mary 1 You have known it a long time I You could not 
3dp knowing it ! Oh, Mary, if I dared hope that you could 
icve me half so well 1” 

“Hush, George; Aunt Eliza rr’ght hear you,” interrupts 
Mary, endeavoring to glance into the house, to ascertain if 
Aunt Eliza is within. 

“But tell me, Mary,” pe;.sists George, “ whether I may 
hope or not. A long time 7. have remained silent, and even 
dared to dream that we might one day be happy. I might 
have nursed the fond dream in silence for a long time to 
come, but lately I have seen that fellow Kirke making him- 
self so agreeable to you, and I have seen you smile on him as 
I would give half my life to see you smile on me once — just 
once ; and this morning you look so beautiful, I am con- 
strained to tell you, what, indeed, you already knew, that I 
love you. I’ve told you now, Mary; I know you believe 
me. Tell me, now, if I may hope. You have it in your 
power to make me happy or miserable from this moment.” 
And poor George bows his head, as a convicted prisoner at 
the bar might do to hear his sentence. 

“Why, George/'’ says Mary, gently disengaging herself 
from the arms of the almost frantic lover, but still remaining 
seated by his side, “ what a foolish fellow you are, to go on 
so. I would not, for the world, give you pain ; you have 
been too good a friend to me, and I like you very much. 
But” — oh, that terrible word — “ I do not love you, George. 
I have no desire at present to pledge myself to any one ; my 
father is all the world to me, and I will not leave him. Now 
George, let us still be good friends, but pray don’t speak to 
me again on this subject.” 


THE DAUGHTER. 


87 


•* Be it as you say, Mary,** says George, with some resigna- 
tion. “ If we can be but friends, I will be a faithful one to 
you, and one whom you may ever command. But oh, Mary, 
I would rather see you love any one but Kirke. He is a 
stranger here ; you don’t know him as you do the boys of 
our own settlement. He may not mean well. He may be 
some ** 

** George,” interrupts Mary, evidently displeased, “ I wish 
you would not talk in this way. We have every reason '‘o 
believe that Mr. Kirke is a gentleman and a man of honor; 
all who have had dealings with him say so. Even were it 
otherwise, I should have no occasion to fear him. I assure 
you that I can and will take care of myself. So farewell to 
this subject; let us talk of something else.” 

“Is your decision final for all time, Mary? May I not 
even hope that ” 

“ Final, George. Let us be friends; we can be no more.” 

Ah, George, it is clear there is no hope for you. Oh, that 
Kirke ! . 

“ Then, Mary, I wdll say no more,” says George, sadly ; 
** but should you, in time, change toward me, and entertain 
more kindly feeling for me, remember I am still the same. I 
will return to-morrow,” he continues, rising ; “ at present, 
good-by.” 

He takes her hand and presses it to his lips, then turns 
away. There is a sad look upon his face, as he passes 
through the lawn gate, and walks slowly down the road. 

“ Poor George,” murmurs Mary, as he disappears among 
tne woods through which the road takes its w'ay. “ Poor 
George ; I am sorry for him. He is a true-hearted, honest 
fellow. I almost thought I loved him once. It vras but a 
girlish fancy. I knew not what love was then ; I know now. 
It must be hard to love and not be loved in return. Yet 
such may be my own sad fate. Oh, does Philip love me? 
and does he suspect yet that I love him f I have always 
fancied he loved me. Yet how reserved he appeared — al- 


S8 


THE WHITE ROCKS, 


most cold — w’lien he took leave of me a few days ago, before 
leaving Weston. Perhaps it was because of his love for me, 
that he feared to make it known lest he should not be favor- 
ably received. I am sure he trembled and looked strangely 
when he took my hand at parting. But he is coming back 
in two months ; then I shall be happy. Hasten by, weary, 
weary time ! Oh, Philip, God grant thee a safe return I” 

Ah, Mary ! Deluded girl I You are but mortal, and can 
only see what is visible around you. Could you see with the 
Omnipresent eye for one moment, and could you peer into 
the robber’s den, but a few miles distant — that dark cave in 
the hill-side — with what a sudden start would your fancied 
love vanish ! 

Mary enters the cottage. Where is Aunt Eliza? Hope 
she didn’t witness that interview. No, yonder she comes 
from the wood. Has been taking a walk. It certainly is a 
lovely morning. % 

George Roland was here, Aunt ; you did not see him, did 
you?” says Mary, as Aunt Eliza draws near. 

Now, Aunt Eliza harbors a peculiar antipathy for men in 
general, and, though certainly unaccountably, for George 
Roland in particular. 

“George Roland 1 That wild, reckless fellow? No, I did 
not see him. What did he want here?” Aunt Eliza speaks 
this all in one breath, 

“ He had expected to find father at home. Father is to 
bring him news from a relative in Pittsburg.” 

“ Oh, S07?ze pretext. I’ll warrant. I hope he was n’t in the 
house ?” queries Aunt Eliza, looking around, as though she 
half expects to miss from its place a table, a bureau, or the 
tall old-fashioned clock, which may have been carried off by 
the unscrupulous young man. 

“ No ; I invited him in, but as the morning is so pleasant, 
he preferred to sit on the porch and talk.” 

“ And talk? I hope you did not stand there talking with 


TdE DAtrGHTEa. m 

tlia.t fellow 1 It’s nothing to your credit if you did, and 
might be quite the reverse.” 

“Oh, no, I did not stand; I just took a seat beside him, 
and we had a pleasant chat of at least three-quarters of an 
hour.” 

Aunt Eliza is astonished. 

“Aunty,” remonstrates Mary, good-humoredly, “you must 
not be too hard on George Roland. I cannot see what cause 
you have to dislike him ; he is a harmless fellow.” 

“ Harmless fellow, indeed ! They’re all harmless when 
they can’t help it. Oh, these heartless, deceitful men ! But,” 
and Aunty’s countenance brightens exultingly, “ thank 
goodness, none of them were ever sharp enough to make a 
fool of me, nor a slave either, with all their smooth-tongued 
flattery.” And Aunty obviously enjoys this pleasant reflec- 
tion, as memory goes back through the long vista of forty 
years, to the time when she was a gay lass of seventeen 
summers. 

“ Dear me. Aunty, how mercilessly you judge the opposite 
sex ! What reason have you for it ? Had you a lover once ? 
and did he prove false ?” asks Mary, roguishly. 

“No, I can’t say that I ever had a lover replies Aunt 
Eliza, with a peculiar emphasis on the word ; “ but I had 
some admirers, and ” 

“ One in particular,” suggests Mary. 

“ Yes,” admits Aunty ; “there was one young man — but 
recollect, I never cared for him — who was more attentive to 
me than any other. Week after week I lived in constant 
expectation of his proposing, that I might give him the 
mitten: and all of a sudden, to the surprise of the whole 
neighborhood, myself included, he went away to a village a 
few miles distant, and deliberately married, yes, married an 
;giy little minx, not much bigger than my arm ; and all, I 
oaspect, because her father was rich.” 

“ What a heartless fellow I” exclaims Mary. 

I remember,” continues Aunty, “ of once hearing a pretty 


46 


Ti'HE WHITE EOCHB. 


little verse, whicli ever since I have treasured up as one oi 
the wisest little productions outside of the Bible. Should 
you like to hear it?” 

“ Oh, very much. Aunty.” 

Then here it is, and may it not be lost on you: 

“ ‘Write on the sand when the tide is low, 

Seek for the words when the waters flow; 

Cast a rose on the swelling sea, 

Expect it again to return to thee ; 

Breathe to the evening air a sigh, 

List for the sound when the wind goes by ; 

If those words again thou see. 

Traced upon the sand by thee; 

If that rose to thee return, 

Upon the raging billows borne ; 

If that sigh again draw near, 

Breathed by the wind to thy list’ning ear; 

Then believe — and not till then — 

That there is truth in the vows of men.* ** 

Tliere is a silence of several minutes, which is biDken at 
last by Mary. ^ 

** Do you not think it strange. Aunty, that father did not 
come home last night? He said he would, you know, 
and ” 

“When you have seen as much of the world as I have; 
Mary,” interrupts Aunty, “ you will learn to attach but little 
importance to what men say. Even your father (though I 
do think that if there had been any perfect men made, he 
would have been one,) cannot be expected to redeem hia 
word. He is but a man!' 

“ But you know. Aunty, he is usually punctual ; and I 
cannot imagine what has detained him.” 

“ W^hy, if there is anything to detain him, it is probably 
looking up those friends of George Roland’s. Dear me ! 1 

don’t think I would go much out of my way to accommodate 
Let him go to Pittsburg himself,’' continues Aunty, in 


TilE DAUGHTER. 41 

a suggesi.i re ^.one, “ to look after his relatives ; it would rid 
this comraunHy of him for a short time at least.” 

The rcmversation is dropped now, but is resumed by starts 
during the eourse of the day, frequently turning in the direc- 
tion of tho creature, "man ; and we gather from the general 
tenor that Mary White is more favorably disposed toward 
the m de sex, as a body, than is Aunt Eliza. The day wears 
away with only the regular routine of household duties. 

Night approaches. 

“ Surely, father will come to-night !” 

Mary utters these words in a tone of anxiety and impa- 
tience as the hours go by. 

Ten o’clock has come. 

** Aunty,” Mary exclaims, almost vehemently, “ I’ll not 
retire till father comes home !” 

“ Why, child, you might sit up till morning.” . 

I v/ill do so, then, if he does not come before. I could 
not sleep. No, I’ll watch till he comes.” 

Ah, Mary, ’t would be a long, an endless watch! He 
will never return to you again. You will never again see 
his happy, joyous face brighten with pleasure at your wel- 
come, as in days past, when you ran to meet him in the 
lawn, or at the little white gate ! 

Mary seats herself at the front window of the neat little 
parlor, and is soon the only wakeful one in the house. Aunt 
Eliza has retired. How quiet everything is, as Mary sits by 
the window gazing out into the dark night. The moon will 
soon rise ; it will be light without then. Not a sound is 
heard save the slow, steady, monotonous “tick” of the old- 
fashioned clock that stands, specter-like, staring at Mary 
from its dark corner. There is a candle upon the table, but 
it has burnt dowm till a long, black, dismal-looking wick is 
mingled with the ascending blaze, causing it to diffuse but a 
dull light; yet Mary heeds it not; she is gazing out upon 
the lawn. 

Hark! What sound? Oh, ’tis only the old clock striking 


42 


WHITE flOCKS. 


the hour of eleven. Why does it not strike faster ? It had 
a slow, tedious way of telling off the hour, that sounds pain- 
ful to-night. It adds to the dismal solitude that reigns, and 
the place seems more lonely than ever. 

Eleven I 

Done at last; then tick, tick, tick, as before. All else is 
quiet.. The time drags wearily on. Another hour is almost 
gone, the quiet moon is up, and still the half-unconscious girl 
maintains her lonely watch at the cottage window. 

“ There’s father, at last ! But — ” 

What is the matter? Why do you not spring up, Mary? 
Why not rush forth to meet him? Why do you sit motion- 
less? and wherefore so strange a look upon your face? What 
do you gaze at in such seeming terror ? 

Henry White is standing in the lawn, only a little way 
from the cottage window. How came he there ? He was 
not seen to enter the gate. The moon shines full upon him. 
He stands motionless. His face is deathly pale ; his eyes 
are fixed, in a strange stare, upon the window ; his head is 
not covered ; his hair is tangled, and — what ? is that blood, 
that dark spot on his forehead ? It is ; and it starts afresh, 
and trickles over his pale face. He raises his hand and 
beckons, as though for help ; but now he waves it, as though 
he said, “ Back, away !” then vanishes. 

There is a piercing scream of terror in the little parlor, fol- 
lowed by a sound as of a light form falling to the floor ; then 
all is still. 

No ! The ticking of the clock, now doubly acute — and 
hark ! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, 
ten, eleven — twelve ! 

The fowls at the neighboring farm-yards, one by one, strike 
ap their nocturnal songs to announce the hour ; the howling' 
of a distant dog is heard, and answered by others here and 
there. These sounds are soon hushed, and very Nature 
•eems to sleep. It is midnight. 


VILLAGE tAYEEl^. 


48 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE VILLAGE TAVERN, 

The village of Weston comprised some tliirty or forty 
houses, chiefly those of storekeepers and mechanics. There 
was a brick church, without a steeple, on the hill behind the 
village, and a white wooden school-house a little way from it. 
There W’as a ferry across the river at this point, and several 
skiffs and “ flat-bottomed ” boats generally lay at the wharf. 
Raftsmen frequently stopped at the village, on their way to 
Pittsburg, with timber cut from the wooded shores of the 
Monongahela, and Cheat rivers, in West Virginia. 

There was a neat tavern at the lower end of the village^ 
near the wharf, whose popular and good-natured proprie- 
tor was known as “ Tony ” Baily. It is evident that his 
surname was Baily ; but what his real Christian name was 
is but a matter of conjecture. It might have been Anthony 
01 Antonio,but we have no direct evidence that it was either. 

Tony Baily, with the co-operation of his industrious wife, 
conducted his little establishment with great care, and to the 
perfect satisfaction of every guest whom he entertained. 
The beds Wb^e comfortable; the furniture, the floors and 
walls were faultlessly clean, and the bill of fare unexcep- 
tionable. 

There was a “ bar connected with the establishment, in 
which might be found the best of liquors of various descrip- 
tions — rye whisky, gin, apple-brandy, cherry-brandy and 
peach-brandy; added to which was a huge barrel of cider 
in the corner. There were no “ fancy drinks ” served up, 
nor even thought of then and there ; and had any one 
•tepped up to the bar and called for a “ gin-sling,” a “ rum- 


44 


THE WHITE KOOKS. 


toddy/* an ‘‘egg-nogg,** a ** tom-and-jerry,** or even a“brandy- 
punch,” it would have been regarded as the most crushing 
evidence of his insanity. 

It was a hot day, early in the month of August. Tony 
Baily was sitting alone in an armchair in his bar-room, smok- 
ing a pipe after dinner. It was a dull day in the village ; 
the harvest was not over yet, and the people of the country 
were busy in the fields. Even the village blacksmith, shoe- 
maker and tailor had left their shops for awhile to aid the 
farmers in reaping and storing away their crops. Not a 
person was to be seen on the single street of the little 
village, save here and there, on the shady side, a group ol 
“Young Americas,” absorbed in the interesting and scientific 
game of “ marbles.” 

Tony felt a little lonesome, with nothing to do and nobody 
to gossip with. But for his pipe, he would have felt posi- 
tively “blue.” He could barely maintain his equanimity by 
watching the smoke as it curled lazily up, after being ejected 
from his mouth ; and it was with some interest that he ob- 
served how perfectly the ethereal vapor kept the flies from 
his face. He had smoked one pipe, and was just knocking 
the hot ashes out against the corner of his chair, when a 
shadow obstructed the open doorway, and darkened the room. 
He turned his head lazily, and, to his delight, saw at tho 
door that good, lively fellow, Philip Kirke, who had been 
absent since May. 

“Why, Phil. 1” exclaimed Tony, springing from his chair, 
and overturning it in the operation, “ I’m delighted to see 
you 1” and he seized Philip Kirke by the hand. 

“ How do you do, Tony ? I am glad to get back to the 
village once more; it is almost like home to me.” 

“ How have you been, Phil. ?” asked Tony. “ I fancy you 
look a little thin. Have you not been well?” 

He did look just a little wan. 

“I have been quite v/ell,” he replied; “but I have been 
knocking around some since I left Weston.” 


fHE VILLAGE TAVERN. 


46 


** Eh I then you have not been in Pittsburg all the time ?*’ 

*‘No; I have been in Philadelphia on some important 
business.’* 

“ Away there ?’* exclaimed Tony, expanding his eyes and 
mouth, then contracting his eyebrows, in a vain attempt to 
bring his mind to bear on so distant a place. 

In those days, a journey from Pittsburg to Philadelphia — 
now occupying about a dozen hours — was considered a “ big 
thing,” and days, nay weeks, were required for its accom- 
plishment. 

“ You have not had your dinner yet,’* said Tony, after a 
pause ; “ so take a seat, and I will order it. What should 
you like?” 

“ Oh, anything,” was the reply. 

But Tony must have misunderstood the order; for when 
the dinner was ready, and all the dishes set on the table, it 
looked as though “ everything ” were a more fit word to 
convey an idea of the viands, vegetables, that graced 
the table. 

“ Will you take a drink before dinner ?” asked Tony, as 
the bell rung to announce that the meal was prepared. 

“Yes,- brandy, if you please, Tony.” 

Philip Kirke did take a drink — and such a drink I 

After dinner he rejoined Tony in the bar-room. 

“Why, where’s your appetite?” asked Tony. “ You have 
not eaten long enough by half an hour.” 

“ Oh I have eaten heartily; thank you,” replied Philip, 
taking a seat in the bar-room. 

“ Any news from abroad, Phil. ?” asked Tony. 

“None, I believe. Any thing strange about Weston since 
I left?” asked Philip, in a careless tone. 

“Strange! yes, Phil., I’ve got a piece of news that you’ll 
be sorry to hear ; something that don’t often happen in these 
quiet country places.” 

“ Ah I what is it ?” 


46 


fail WaiTli 


** Why, old Harry White is missing, and it is thought he 
has been murdered.” 

Philip almost sprang from his chair — ^he was so surprised, 
so astounded. 

“ Missing !” he exclaimed. “Murdered! My old friend, 
Henry White 1 Why how was it ? Tell me all about it I” 
Here was an opportunity for Tony to take an important 
part in a most delightful piece of gossip. Such opportuni- 
ties did not occur every day. He was about to enjoy tha 
pleasure of relating to one, to whom it was entirely new, all 
that was known of an occurrence that had produced the most 
extraordinary excitement throughout the whole community. 

“ Let me see,” began Tony. “ It was not long after you 
left us last May ; in fact, if I remember correctly, Henry 
White had already gone to Pittsburg before you left, and — ” 
“ Yes, I remember that he started for Pittsburg some days 
before I left; but he had not returned yet.” 

“ Well,” Tony went on, “you know that Henry White was 
a man who always redeemed his word, even on the most 
trifling occasions, — ” 

“Yes, I know.” 

“ — and, on leaving for Pittsburg, he said he would be back 
in just a week from that night. Well, the week passed away^ 
and the night came, (it was the night of the twelfth of May — 
I’ll never forget it,)” he continued, meditatively, “ and on 
that night he was expected home just as much as the sun 
was expected to rise above the top of the mountain next 
morning ; but the night passed away, the morning came, the 
sun rose as usual, and Henry White did not come. Next 
day his sister and daughter — Mary, you know — 

“ Yes, I know her,” said Philip, as Tony paused. 

“ — felt rather uneasy, for they feared that his horse might 
have thrown him, or, as he h^ a sum of gold about him, 
that he might have been waylaid ; so, when night came 
again, and he had not arrived, Mary determined to sH by 
the window and watch till he should come. But the night 


THE VILLAGE TAVERN. 


47 


pacsed away, the day came and passed away, weeks passed 
away, and still Henry White has not returned. But the 
strangest part of all,” continued Tony, deliberately, “ was — ” 
What?” 

** Why just at midnight, as Mary sat at the window, broad 
awake, and looking out toward the gate — the moon was up, 
and it was almost as light as day — she saw her father, old 
Henry White, standing right in front of the window, staring 
at her, and waving his hand. He was pale as death ; there 
was blood on his face and among his long, tangled hair ; and 
his clothes were torn and covered with dust. He stood a 
moment waving his hand, in a warning manner, then van- 
ished like a ghost, as he, no doubt, was ; and Mary fainted 
away in terror — why, Phil., you look awful pale !” 

“ I am so astounded by what you are telling me. Go on.' 
Well, as 1 said, Mary swooned away, and was actually 
found by her aunt next morning, still lying i isensible on the 
floor.” 

“ Terrible !” said Philip, shuddering. 

The doctor was sent for, and soon after arriving restored 
her to consciousness. She then related what she had seen, 
declared that her father was murdered, and that she expected 
never to see him again. George Eoland happened there that 
morning, and — — ” 

Who?” interrupted Philip, quickly. 

“ George Roland. He chanced to pass that way the same 
morning, and on hearing what Mary had seen, and learning 
that her father had not yet arrived, came straight to the 
village, and collected a crowd to go in search. Henry 
White, before going away, expressed his intention of coming 
up on the Greene county side on his return ; so George, with 
a lot of the boys from town, and two or three from the 
country, crossed the river and scoured the country beyond, 
for miles around.” 

“ Did they find any trace of him?” 

“ No trace of the missing man. They met a farmer, who 


48 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


informed them that he had a stray horse in his stable, which, 
with saddle and bridle on, had come to his gate the previous 
morning; and on going with him, they identified it as that 
of Henry White. Thinking that the animal might have 
thrown him on the way, and either killed him or hurt him 
badly, they traveled the road he had no doubt come, ’for 
miles, making inquiries of every one they met, but no infor- 
mation could be gained to indicate where, when, or by what 
means the master and horse parted.” 

Where does the farmer live, in whose keeping they found 
the horse?” 

“ Beyond the river, about a mile from the ferry.” 

“ And has nothing at all been developed that might point 
to his fate?” 

Nothing. The authorities were apprised of the circum- 
stances, and the case was even placed in the hands of a de- 
tective from Pittsburg; but several weeks’ investigation 
proved fruitless; and, concluding that Henry White must 
have been followed from Pittsburg, and robbed and mur- 
dered on the way, he gave it up, and returned home. About 
three months have now elapsed, and still the fate of Henry 
White remains a mystery. Every one feels sure that he has 
been murdered, and that by some of the terrible brigands 
who have infested this neighborhood for a year past. The 
people are now more than ever determined to hunt them 
down. A company of sixty young men, with George Poland 
at their head, has been organized for the purpose. They all 
live in or around Weston, and are to be always ready, at a 
given signal, to assemble here. They have made several 
excursions to the mountains, up and down the river, and 
even into Greene county, in hopes of discovering the den of 
these villains. Their eflbrts, thus far, have been of no avail ; 
but every one is confident that this same band of young men 
will be the means of bringing the robbers to justice at last.” 

** I most ardently hope so,” said Philip Kirke. “ But what 
ifi the signal that is to call them together ?” 


THE VILLAGE TAVERN. 


49 


** It is the report of the little cannon we keep here to fire 
on Christmas and New Year’s. Whenever there are any 
indications of the robbers near the village, the cannon is to 
be fired three times in succession, and all the crew are to 
come straight here, ready for the chase. None of them 
reside more than a mile distant, and there is no doubt that 
at any time, day or night, they can all be assembled right 
here in front of my door within a quarter of an hour.” 

“ A good arrangement,” observed Philip. 

“Very. They are a determined set of fellows, too, and 
certainly able to cope with an equal number of the ma- 
rauders. No one has the least idea as to the number of the 
robbers, wherever they may be ; but certainly there are not 
enough to stand against George Poland’s company of sixty.” 

“ No, it is not probable they are so numerous,” remarked 
Philip Kirke, half abstractedly. No doubt he was making a 
little mental calculation of how many times six are contained 
in sixty — quotient, ten, “But what of Mary?” he presently 
asked. 

“Mary?” responded Tony. “Why, she, poor girl, was 
prostrated with illness, which for weeks was daily expected 
to terminate fatally. She rallied at last, though, and is quite 
well now, but very sad and low-spirited. A will was found, 
written and signed by her father, bequeathing all his posses- 
sions, valued at about fifteen thousand dollars, to her, and 
appointing, as guardian, her uncle^ (brother of her deceased 
mother), Ira Tate. A few weeks since, Mary, with her aunt, 
left her old home, and went to live with her uncle and 
guardian, who resides six or eight miles from here, at the 
foot of the mountain. The late home of Henry White is quite 
deserted now, and it is doubtful whether any person in the. 
whole neighborhood could be induced to pass the night there. 
Some think that, as the ghost of Henry White did appear 
there once, it will probably wander about the premises every 
night till it can communicate with some one, expose- the 
murderer, and tell where the body may be found ; and no one 
4 


50 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


relishes the idea of receiving the information st the hand* 
of the ghost. A few nights since, Will Hempstead was re- 
turning home from the village, and he distinctly saw the 
form of a man standing in the lawn. Will is not a coward, 
and he spoke to the figure; but when it only turned and 
stared at him, he suddenly remembered that he was late and 
ought to hurry home.” 

Again Tony was only telling Kirke what he already knew. 
It was no other than himself whom the redoubtable Will 
Hempstead had seen, he having a few nights previously visited 
the deserted premises. As it was at a rather late hour, he 
had supposed Mary and her aunt to be abed ; he was not 
aware that they had removed to the mountain. 

“By the way, Phil.,” said Tony, who had came near for- 
getting an important point, “you don’t happen to know Ira 
Tate, Mary’s uncle?” 

“No, I am not aware that I have ever seen him,” returned 
Kirke. 

“Well,’\said Tony, “he is the queerest man that ever 
lived. He is a most secluded man, and is seldom seen 
beyond the limits of his farm. But what is most remarkable 
is his irritable temper. He is not really a bad-hearted man ; 
but the most trivial vexation arouses him in a second, and 
throws him into a towering rage; then he is sure to vent hia 
ire on some unoffending object. Once he accidentally cut his 
foot with an ax, while chopping wood, and what did he do 
but walk straight to a big rock near by, and fall to cutting 
and chopping at it like a madman I Nor did he cease to deal 
heavy blows with the ax, till he had battered the edge off, 
and it was blunt as a mallet. Having thus vented his wrath, 
he threw the ruined ax away, walked calmly, to the house, 
and bound up his wounded foot.^ At another time he was 
walking across one of his fields, accompanied by a favorite 
dog, watching some crows that were in the habit of taking 
up his planted corn ; when his shins suddenly came in pain- 
ful contact with the sharp corner of a stump, throwing him 


THE VILLAGE TAVEBIT. 


51 


headlong to the ground. Springing up in a rage, and there 
being unfortunately no crows within range of his gun, what 
should he do but up and blaze away at the poor unoffending 
dog, blowing half his head off. Then, in remorse for what 
he had done, he made amends by breaking his gun across the 
stump, and leaving the pieces lie. He then went home, ac- 
tually crying, locked himself up in a room, and did not come 
forth again for two days. It was, perhaps, a fortunate thing 
that his gun was not a double-barreled one ; for had it been, 
there is little doubt he would have sent the contents of the 
second barrel into his own head, after killing the dog.*’ 

“ Why,” said Philip, half in awe, “he is a dangerous man.** 

“ No,” returned Tony, “ not especially dangerous ; he never 
vents his vrrath on the persons of human beings, unless they 
are the cause of it, or chance to laugh at him.” 

“ Laugh at him ?” 

“Yes. Did you chance to be standing by, and see him 
accidentally cut or burn his fingers, or anything of that sort, 
and were you even so much as to smile, he 'would in all 
probability make a savage rush for you in the heat of the 
moment’s passion, and if you did not get out of the way, you 
would be likely to get a pounding which you should never 
forget. He is a powerful fellow, too. I do not think there 
is a stronger man in Fayette county. Last fall I 'was re- 
turning from the mountain, where I had been after chestnuts, 
when passing his house I saw him carrying a log of wood 
that would have been a load for six men. I have heard men 
say ‘there is nothing in a name;' there may not be as a 
general thing; but if there ever was a man whose name 
nearly expressed his disposition, his certainly does.” 

“ How so ?” asked Philip, as Tony paused to take breath. 

“ Why, do n't you see?” 

“ I am not sure that I do.** 

“Then I’ll explain. His name is Ira Tate; well, the 
addition of a single letter will make it irritate. In fact, he 
ia galled ‘Old limitation,* fo^: short; he is scarcely eye^ 


52 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


spoken of by any other name; but those who speak ^himj 
are careful to address him by his real name. If a man were^ 
to address him as * Old Irritation/ he would soon see that hes 
had given cause for new irritation.” 

Philip Kirke laughed. The case of Mary White’s goodl 
uncle was a remarkable blending of name and nature; such,, 
indeed, as is seldom met with. Men’s characters are not 
often so nearly defined by their names. In truth, I may say, 
quite the reverse. I knew a Mr. Fear once, who was one of 
the boldest of men; and my astonishment on one day being 
introduced to an incredibly tall man, whose name was Low„ 
was only equaled by meeting, a little while after, a very 
dwarf of a man whose cognomen was Hie. I know a Mr. 
Allbright who is not at all bright, and a Mr. Dull who isi 
very sharp. I do not think there is a man in any country 
where the English language is spoken, who cannot point out 
a number of persons within the circle of his acquaintance, 
whose names are equally inconsistent with their natures. 

So, Mary is living with this uncle of hers,” observed 
Kirke. 

Yes, poor girl ! Her father, whom she loved more than 
all else, is taken away from her, and she has need of a friend 
and companion now, more than e .r. She is the best of girls 
— intelligent and handsome; eh, Phil.?” 

Kirke did not reply ; but his face wore a very thoughtful 
expression. 

** Have the robbers committed any depredations lately ?” 
he asked, after a silence of a few minutes. 

“ For two months following the disappearance of Henry 
White,” replied Tony, “ they were not heard of anywhere in 
the neighborhood, which is pretty clear evidence that they 
are guilty of his murder ; but within the past few weeks they 
have resumed their old tricks. One night last week a peddler 
was robbed of about three hundred dollars, a few miles from 
the village ; and the same night quite a supply of provision! 
disappeared from Mr. Williamson’s cellar/ 


THE VILLAGE TAVEEN. 


5S 


“It is very strange,” observed Philip, “that they cannot 
be detected. I wonder where their rendezvous can be?'’ 

“ In the mountains, no doubt,” replied Tony, who partook 
of the popular opinion ; “ but, be it where it may, if it is on 
top of ground, I’ll wager a barrel of the best old rye I have, 
that George Roland and his party will find it out at last.” 

“ I should not like to be in any of their shoes, if captured,” 
observed Philip. “ What do you think would be done with 
them?” 

“ If I get irv'j way,” said Tony, deliberately, “ when they 
are taken, I will bury theca all alive, except their leader, if 
they have any.” 

“And what would you do with Am.?” asked Philip, in 
surprise. 

“Hang him up,” said Tony, almost fiercely, “by the heels 
— yes, by the heels — to some tree on the mountain, and let 
the vultures pick the flesh from his bones before his own 
eyes. Then I would have his whited skeleton brought to 
the village, and hung up in the most public place — in front 
of my house, for instance — as a terror to all evil doers in ages 
to come.” 

In contemplation of such possible contingency, Philip 
Kirke, captain and commander of the robbers’ den and its 
forces, took a social drink with Tony, and walked out for a 
stroll about the village. 

“ Of course we’ll expect you for supper?” observed Tony. 

“Oh, certainly; and for many suppers to come. I shall 
stay with you for several months— all winter, perhaps,” 
replied Kirke, walking leisurely up the street. 

“ A fine, gentlemanly fellow, good pay, and a sensible man 
to talk to,” muttered the loquacious Tony, proprietor of the 
village tavern, as he proceeded to fill his pipe with particles 
of tobacco cut from a “plug” of the article which he carri«^^ 
in his pocket. 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 




CHAPTER V. 

THE GRAVEYARD GHOST. 

It ^ clear, pleasant night in September. The mocn 
had not yet risen, but millions of stars twinkled in the dark 
blue heavens, all the more brightly because there was no pale 
moonlight to make their luster dim. 

The hour was nine. 

Two young men were approaching the village of Weston 
at a leisurely pace, by the mountain road. They were Will 
Hempstead and John Duffey. The former was a sensible, 
honest, and industrious young man of twenty-two, who re- 
sided on a well-cultivated farm a mile or so east of the 
village. The latter was a most mischievous and fun-loving 
fellow of twenty. He lived in the village, where his father 
kept the principal store of the vicinity. He was in reality a 
good sort of a fellow, and was always happy to render any 
one the slightest service, even at his own inconvenience. 
But then he would go almost any length for the sake of a 
little sport ; and the tricks he played, however delightful to 
himself and amusing to spectators, were generally most un- 
comfortable to the unhappy victim. 

Early on the evening in question, he had walked out cv 
the residence of his chum. Will Hempstead, for the purpose 
of prevailing on that gentleman to accompany him on the 
following day, in an expedition to recover, in a summary 
way, a fine horse which had been stolen from him a month 
previous, and which, he had just ascertained, was now in 
possession of a well-known rascal residing in a town in Greene 
county, some twenty miles from Weston. As it was expe- 
(lieut to start early in the morning. Will had conseated to 


THE GEAVEYAEH aHCST. 55 

Accompany his friend at once to the village, and stay with 
him that night. 

Now, as they were passing the churchyard just without the 
village, they suddenly felt the blood run cold in their veins, 
and experienced a remarkable inflexibility of the hair, as 
they saw, “with their own eyes,*’ and they “in their sobei 
senses” and “wide awake,” a form and figure of spotless white, 
gliding with strange, unnatural tread among the green 
graves and old gray stones that thronged the quiet church- 
yard. 

“Death and destruction!” exclaimed Will, in a suppressed 
voice. “ What’s that ?” 

“ A ghost, by all that’s fearful 1” shuddered John, in reply ; 
and both were on the point of taking to their heels. 

“It’s coming toward us!” whispered Will, in dismay, as 
the ghostly figure, in its wanderings, turned deliberately in 
the direction of the gate near which the frightened young 
men stood. 

“ Stay 1” whispered Dufiey, with a determined efibrt to 
master the terror he naturally felt. “ Stay I Let us conceal 
ourselves in the bushes here, and when it comes near we may 
discover what it is. If it be eom^ cuss in a sheet trying to 
scare us, we’ll give him a rock or two.” 

With some hesitation. Will crouched beside his friend 
among the bushes that grew by the fence, and in trembling, 
breathless silence, they watched the movements of the specter. 

The latter certainly seemed unconscious of any mortal 
presence, for it moved slowly on till within a few feet of the 
gate, stood motionless a moment, then slowly turned away 
and resumed its walk among the graves. Dufiey and his 
friend now discovered that the ghost was chanting, in a low 
and scarcely audible tone, some strange and melancholy 
verse; and as they distinctly heard the words, Sleep with 
the dead /” their emotions amounted to awe. But suddenly, 
while the strange being was slowly receding from them, John 
Dufiey somewhat astonished his friend by clutching his arm and 


66 


THE WHITE EOCKS. 


endeavoring to whisper something in his ear, while almost 
choking with irrepressible laughter. Will was alarmed at 
this symptom, for he imagined that his friend had suddenly 
gone mad, no doubt from some strange influence wielded by 
the ghost ; and he even began to wonder how many seconds 
should elapse ere he himself should be affected in a similar 
way. He was speedily affected in a like manner, as his 
friend presently found words to whisper, “ It’s Sallie 
Crane 1” 

It is now expedient that the reader should know who Sallie 
Crane was. She was a poor, harmless, unfortunate creature, 
who from her youth had been a kind of lunatic. She had a 
curious fancy to wander away from her home, and stroll 
among the woods or over the fields ; and frequently eluding 
the vigilance of her parents and sisters, who watched her 
carefully, she would walk away and wander listlessly about for 
hours. The time, whether day or night, and even the con- 
dition of the weather, mattered little to her. The darkness 
of the night, the thunder, the lightning, the rain, and the 
storm did not terrify her. Above all she seemed to delight 
in a walk about the churchyard, of a dark night; and more 
than once had her friends found her there and conducted her 
home. 

On the present occasion, Sallie had left her bed-room, 
unseen by her friends, who still supposed her to be asleep 
there; and gliding away (with no apparel on save such 
sundry white garments as ladies usually repose in), had bent 
her steps to the quiet churchyard, where she was having a 
pleasant stroll when Will Hempstead and John Duffey 
chanced that way. 

So it is. Sallie Crane, as I’m a sinner!” returned Will 
Hempstead. “ And here have we, two vigorous young men, 
been frightened almost out of our wits by that harmless girl. 
Oh, it is a joke! I would n’t have it known for a pretty sum. 
But we ought to send her home, or go and inform her father 
of her 'v^hereabouts.” 


GRAVEYARt) GHOST. 


67 


“No, wait; let us watch her, and see what she will do,” 
replied John. 

“I would like to know what strange whim brings her 
.here,” said Will. 

“ So would I. But I know one thing : she gave me about 
awful a fright as I ever enjoyed. Ah, look ! she has 
stopped under the big willow tree, and there, by George ! she 
has calmly taken a seat on the stone that covers old John 
West’s grave! But, ha! how is that?” exclaimed John, as 
the white figure, apparently sinking into the earth, disap- 
peared from view. 

“I half believe it xb a ghost, after all,” said Will, with a 
shudder. 

“ Her own, perhaps. She may have died suddenly, and 
we not have heard of it,” suggested John, as the cold sweat 
^tarte^ from his face. 

“ Confound if I’ll stay here much longer,” said Will, now 
more terror-stricken than ever. 

" Let us away to. the village, then, and the ghost catch the 
kindmost,” said John. “ But stop !” he exclaimed, as a 
bright idea struck him ; “ I see it all now. It’s no ghost, 
it’s Sallie Crane after all.” 

“ But where has she gone to?” 

“ Oh, that is easily explained ; you know there is a brick 
wall around ©Id West’s grave — ” 

“ Yes, I know, but — ” 

“Well, last Sunday I was over there, and I noticed that a 
portion of the wall had crumbled down and fallen out, so 
that any person so disposed could crawl in upon the grave. 
Now I’ll bet my head that Sallie is in there. A snug place, 
too.” 

Jofin West was the name of a revered old citizen, who in 
his lifetime had founded the town of Weston. . He had gone 
to bis final rest many years before, and his remains were 
interred beneath a spreading willow that stood in the church- 
vai'd, about thirty paces from the gate. A brick wall, three 


THIS WHITE itdegl 


feet high, bad been built around the grave, and on tbe Wah 
rested a marble slab, on which was inscribed 

“ The name and years spelled by the unlettered muse.** 

The wall had grown old and unstable, and a number of iht 
bricks had become loose and tumbled out, disclosing an un- 
occupied space capable of containing about eleven bushels. 
As DufFey surmised, the poor girl had crept through the 
aperture, and was now reposing within the narrow inclosure. 

“I wonder if she is there?’* said Will. 

‘‘Certainly she is,” j-esponded John; “it is just like her; 
and if not disturbed, she w'ould probably lie there till 
morning.” 

“ Then let us take the poor girl nome.” 

“ No, let us have a little fun out of the affair ; we deserve 
it after our fright,” said Dufiev. 

“ But how can we?” 

“ I’ll tell you. Ned Stanton was in town when I left, and, 
as he was about half tight, I have no doubt he is there yet. 
You know what a blow he is ; he boasts that nothing can 
frighten him. In truth he is not a coward ; I never saw him 
Beared yet. I do n’t believe he fears anything in the shape 
of man or beast. But as for ghosts, I think if there is fear in 
him at all, they are the things to frighten him. Now, if we 
could only entice him out here — ” 

“ But it would be too bad ; the poor girl — ” 

“ Oh, nonsense ! Poor Sallie will be none the worse for 
having frightened Ned a little. I have a plan. Come with 
me to the village ; we’ll be sure to find Ned at Tony’s, and 
if we do n’t see some fun out of this affair yet, then call me a 
Btupid. Will you go?” 

“ Yes, come on.” 

With this Duffey and his friend, “ on mischief bent,” 
started at a brisk pace for the village. Let us precede them 
thither* 


GHAVfi^Aili) 6H0S1' 6§ 

Ned Stanton, as he was called, was a lively, blustering, 
itnd rather egotistical young man of twenty-five. He was 
an indolent fellow by nature, and somewhat given to dissipa- 
tion. Sometimes he would “ straighten-up ” for a few months, 
and work right industriously; occasionally doing a little 
business in the way of speculating. He lived with his 
father, a wdl-to-do farmer, who resided about two miles 
south of the village. Hed wait a talkative fellow at the 
best ; but when he found himself outside a “ glass or two, 
talk seemed to flow spontaneously from his mouth, and the 
words dropped from the end of his tongue in such quick suc- 
cession, that it required a quick ear to pick them up. In one 
breath he would tell what he had seen, what he had done, 
what he could do, and what he wasn’t afraid to do. He 
would hold the unhappy listener spellbound for hours, with- 
out allowing him a single space to slip a word in, or exposing 
a single avenue of escape. He was, however, a good-hearted 
fellow, and not at all selfish or arrogant. It is said, “ an 
empty cask sends forth a loud sound;” but Ned was cer- 
certainly an exception to the general rule. He was a large, 
powerful fellow in form, and was neither a fool nor a coward. 
He had not many enemies, nor yet many intimate friends. 
He had one firm friend, however, for whom he would hot 
have hesitated to lay down his life, had it come to that. 
That friend was the village blacksmith — a man a few years 
older than himself, and very difierent in disposition. He 
was a most quiet and sedate man, and was never known to 
speak unless he found it positively necessary. His name was 
Richard Miller ; but his civil demeanor had gained for him 
the ironical sobriquet of “ Noisy Dick.” 

On that same September evening Ned and Dick were 
seated together in Tony Daily’s bar-room, smoking their 
pipes, and occasionally taking a drink. No one else was 
present save Tony, who sat reading a newspaper which had 
been sent to him by some far-off friend. Philip Kirke still 
•qjournei at the village tavern, but was absent that evening. 


60 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


l)ick liad not spoken for an hour. Ned had spoken for an 
hour, and that without intermission. He had been narrating 
to his friend a thriLing adventure he had once had in Pitts- 
burg, in which he had “licked ” three stout ruffians who had 
attacked him, and knocked down four watchmen who at- 
tempted to “ take ” him, thereby making his escape. At last 
he got through ; he had told Dick all, and he actually stopped 
talking, much to the astonishment of his friend, and was 
silent for a full minute. During that silence he relighted 
his pipe, which had long since gone out for want of attention. 

It was now, however, his turn to be astonished. His as- 
tonishment was caused by the sudden breaking of the silence 
by Dick. He so seldom heard him speak that his voice 
Bounded almost strange. 

“ Ned,” said he, solemnly. 

“What?” asked Ned, who wished to encourage his friend 
in the talking way. 

“ Ned,” said Dick, in a low tone, “ one of us has it in his 
power to render the other a service.” 

“ I can’t imagine what you mean,” said Ned, who sup- 
posed that his friend was just emerging into insanity ; and it 
was only on such grounds that he could account for his having 
Bpoken such an unusual number of words at all. 

“ Then I’ll explain,” said Dick. 

“ Go on,” said Mr. Edward Stanton. 

“You know Matilda Tate, Mary White’s cousin?” 

“ Daughter of Old Irritation ?’* 

“ Yes.” 

“ Oh yes I Know her quite well — very well. But what 
of her?” 

“ Do you love her?” 

“ Love her! You astonish me !” exclaimed Ned, who mow' 
considered it quite clear that Dick’s mind was wandering. 

“ Do you ?” 

“ Do you ask me in earnest ?” 

“ Yes ; do you love her ?” 


th£ graveyard GflOSl?* 


61 


“ No, then ; not by a darned sight.*’ 

“ You don’t 
“No.** 

“ You are sure you don’t?*’ 

“ Certainly.” 

“ And never will ?*’ 

“ Never will, if I live to be as old as the White Rocks !” 

“ Then it is you who are to do me a service. Had you 
loved her, I could have done you a good turn — ” 

“ How ?’* 

“ By informing you that your feeling was reciprocated, and 
that you might hope.” 

“ What, Dick, you do n’t mean to say that she loves me /” 

“ Yes, Ned, I have accidentally discovered that she does. 
It is a long story to tell how I made the discovery, and I 
cannot tell you all just now ; but of one thing you may rest 
assured, and for that you have the word of a friend — she is 
struck after you, Ned ; she wants you, and — *’ 

“ But how can I serve you ? I do not see that ail this has 
any bearing on that point.** 

“ I’ll tell you. I want you to avenge me.” 

“ Avenge you ! How ?” 

“ Listen, and I will tell. Ten years ago I was just emerg- 
ing into manhood, and Matilda was a blooming lass. (She is 
rather on the old maid list now.) She was, in fact, a perfect 
coquette. She took me in, Ned. I admired her beauty with 
all the gallant ardor of a boy of nineteen ; I courted her ; 
was encouraged with the most lavish smiles ; I adored her — 
worshiped her; she knew it; she still drew me on. At last, 
after a year of blissful dreaming, I told her all; told her I 
loved her ; told her I adored, worshiped her ; told her that 
I and all I possessed were at her disposal. She smiled so 
ew’eetly while I, fool that I was, was pouring out my soul to 
her, that I felt sure that her name would be Mrs. Miller 
before a month ; but when I had finished — when I had said 


62 


'rss WfilTE JIOCRS. 


all tlie endearing words I could think of — what do you thint 
she said?” 

“ Could n’t tell for my life,” said Ned. 

‘‘ She simply said, * 0 you silly fellow ! I never thought 
you would be so foolish as to fall in love, or I would have 
dismissed you long ago.* ‘ But ’ said I, ‘ tell me, will you be 
mine? Will you make me happy?’ But she laughed out- 
right — a laugh that pierced my very heart — arid said she 
would as soon think of marrying Jerry Armstrong — you 
know Jerry — and that she never had supposed I was think- 
ing of love or marriage. She said she had supposed my 
attentions to have been merely those prompted by friendship. 
Oh, the heartless girl ! What pleasure was it in her to rend 
my heart by such cruel deception? But I don’t love her 
now. I hate her ! Now, Ned, I’ll tell you what I want you 
to do for me, as a friend.” 

“ What is it? I’ll do anything you ask,” said Stanton. 

“ Make love to her ; show her the most flattering atten- 
tion; court her, and just when she thinks she has you, cast 
her ruthlessly off” said Dick, bitterly. ‘‘ Will yo do it?’* 

** Will I? Yes, Dick; if it is in my power I will.’* 

‘‘ Oh, it will be an easy matter. She is now about thirty 
years old ; she has thrown away many an opportunity to 
marry, only for the pleasure of flirting. Now, however, she 
is beginning to fear that she will die an old maid. She wants 
a husband ; and, of all men, she wants you. She loves you — 
if such a heart can love ; I discovered it strangely enough, 
and you may rely upon the truth of it. Will you serve me ?” 

** Assuredly.” 

** Then do so, and I will thank you. At present that is all 
I have to say,’* said Dick, in conclusion. 

And it was. Dick, who had not talked so much for a 
month before, again lapsed into his wonted silence. 

Ned was about to introduce some new topic of conversa- 
tion, when Will Hempstead and John Duffey entered. 

** How are you, boys? Come and take a drink,** said Ned, 


THE GEAVEYAED GHOST. 


6B 

** Hilloal You here, Ned ?” said John DufFey. Why thli 
\b the first time I have seen you since that night we saw the 
ghost on the mountain.” He alluded to an adventure which 
he and Ned had had some months previous. 

Ghost be hanged !” responded Ned. “ That v/as no more 
ghost than I am. I’ll bet my hat it was some fellow trying 
to scare us; and if ever I find out who it was — ” 

“ Come now, Ned, you know you were scared that night/’ 
urged John, interrupting his threat. 

Scared ! I scared ? /.? Nary time . If there were such 

things as ghosts, which there are not. I’ll stake my life I 
would n’t fear all that could stand between the river and the 
mountain. But, nonsense ; there are no such things as ghostst 
so take a drink.” 

And they all took a drink. 

“I hope you will not think me superstitious, Ned,” John 
resumed, as he seated himself near Ned Stanton; “ but there 
certainly are unaccountable things in this world, call them 
ghosts, or what you may. There can be no doubt in the 
world that a graveyard, for instance — ” 

Oh, fudge !” interrupted Ned. I’d just as lief sleep in 
a graveyard, on a pleasant night, as in my bed. Talk of your 
graveyard ghosts ! Hav n’t I, many a night, passed the 
graveyard out here by the church? and didn’t I sleep in it 
one night when I was too drunk to get home ; and hav n’t I 
played cards in the church hard by from sunset to midnight, 
and from midnight till morning? and — ” 

“ Did you never see anything strange ?” interrupted Will 
Hempstead. 

“ No, nor — ** 

“ Did n’t you just feel a little queer?” suggested Dutfey.- 
No, not a darned bit. If any difference, I felt rather 
better than usual,” asserted the imperturbable Ned. 

“ That,” explained Duffey, “was because the spirit of some 
departed friend hovered near you, causing you to feel, iu 
fact—” 


64 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


“ Pshaw!” interrupted Ned. “ There’s no such thing; yon 
know there is n’t 1 Did you ever see anything there, or any- 
where else, to — ’’ 

“Well, whether you believe it or not, I have seen strange 
things there,” said John, mysteriously. 

“ And so have I,” put in Will. 

“ So strange that I would n’t care about sleeping there,” 
•aid John. 

“Or even w^alking through it after nightfall,” added Will. 

“ Well, responded Ned, “ whenever you chance to see any- 
thing there again that you can’t unravel, just send for me; 
and if I do n’t walk in and make an investigation then I’ll 
agree to — to — leave off drinking for a year,” concluded Ned, 
naming the worst penalty he could think of at the moment. 

“ Ghosts can be seen there any night, if you know how to 
call them up,” said DufFey.” 

“ They can, can they?” retorted Ned, half curiously. 

“ Yes, they can.” 

“ To-night, for instance ?” suggested Ned. 

“ Yes, Ned, to-night. But I would not be the man to call 
them up for all the farms between here and Brownsville.” 

“ I would, then. Just tell me how it can be done, and I’ll 
go to the graveyard and raise a perfect mob of them ; yes, 
and talk to them in a way that will astonish them, when they 
are raised — when they are raised.” 

“ Oh it is easy enough ; easier than you think, so far as the 
action goes ; but then the courage — ” 

“ Oh, fudge 1 Tell me how you think they can be called 
up, and I will soon convince you that there are no such 
things as ghosts.” 

“ You will?” 

“ Yes, and there’s my hand on it and Ned extended his 
hand. 

“ Then,” said John, “ all you have to do is to go to the 
churchyard, mount upon a grave or tombstone, and shout 
three timss, at the top of your voice, ‘ Come to judgment, 0 


THE GRAVEYARD GHOST. 


65 


je dead I’ and if you do n’t see something startling I’ll agree 
there are no ghosts in existence.” 

-ni do it.” 

“ When ? to-night ?* 

“Yes, at once.” 

“ You will?” 

“Yes, I’ll mount upon any grave you mention, and I’ll 
shout, * Come to judgment, 0 ye dead,’ a dozen times, if you 
like.” 

“Very well, then; if you will go now to the churchyard, 
mount upon the stone that covers old John West’s grave, and 
shout, three times, * Come to judgment, 0 ye dead,’ I will 
keep you in whisky for six months ; here are witnesses to the 
bargain.” 

“Done I” exclaimed Ned, in transports. “Agreed, I’m off! 
Ho for the land of ghosts I Ho for the graveyard I Hurrah ! 
hurrah! hurrah!” and he rushed from the bar-room, and 
made for the churchyard with a speed entirely uncalled for. 

John, Will, Tony and Dick followed, at a little distance, to 
see the sport. 

When Ned reached the gate he flung it open and entered, 
without observing a dark figure that stood in the road, and 
that suddenly glided among the thick bushes that grew oppo- 
site the churchyard gate. As yet the adventurer had not 
faltered, for he did not doubt that his bar-room friends had 
followed at a respectful distance, and here was certainly a 
glorious opportunity to exhibit his courage. 

It was a lonely place there, in the churchyard. The night 
was rather dark, at the best ; but when he stood beneath the 
wide-spreading willow tree, he found the gloom intense. A 
slight breeze was blowing, and the rustling of the leaves and 
branches above his head sounded very solemn. He half 
wished that some other grave than that of old John West 
had been selected for the experiment. However, he was in 
for it; so, mounting boldly upon the marble slab, he called 
out, in a voice that almost hushed the breeze ; 

5 


THE WHITE K0CK3. 


66 

** Come to judgment, 0 ye dead 1 Come to judg — ” 

At this moment poor crazy Sallie, aroused from a light 
sleep into which she had fallen, and imagining the voice of 
Ned to be that of some one of her friends calling to her, crept 
meekly forth from her snug resting-place and rose to her 
feet, her white garments clearly visible to the startled gaze 
of Ned. He was no coward, as we have before stated ; but 
then to see a white apparition so unexpectedly issuing forth 
from a grave beneath his very feet, and that, too, at his own 
bidding, was too much for mortal nerves. In a second his 
courage took wings and flew away, the “cold chills” shot 
through his frame, and, with a scream of terror, he sprang 
from -his dismal perch, and away he went, bounding and 
flying like a wild deer over graves and tombstones, now 
falling headlong over an unusually high grave, and scramb- 
ling convulsively to his feet; and, in the darkness, he missed 
the gate, and brought up against the fence with such force 
that he recoiled upon his back on a new-made grave ; then, 
struggling to his feet again, he cleared the fence at a bound, 
and, with another piercing scream, he fell senseless in the 
road. 

At this moment a second dark figure, that was moving 
along the road, coming from the direction of the mountains, 
darted among the bushes near where the first had disap- 
peared, and, in a suppressed tone of terror, exclaimed : 

“ Great heaven ! is that the ghost of Henry White come to 
judge me 1” 

If the first dark figure had ears they must have heard the 
exclamation. 

Duflfey and the others, who had arrived to within thirty or 
forty paces of the gate, now hurried up to the assistance of 
the unfortunate Ned. 

Poor Sallie, the innocent cause of his terror, having awaked 
from her slumber in a somewhat rational mood, slunk away 
to her home, and returned to her chamber. Her absence had 
^ 9 t been discovered the famil}?'. 


THE MYSTERIOUS FIGURE. 


67 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE MYSTERIOUS FIGURE. 

More than a month had ^elapsed since Philip Kirke’s re- 
turn to the village, and it was now about the middle of 
September. The heat of the summer had abated, and the 
pleasant days that herald the approach of autumn were 
come. Thu? far Philip had remaired idly about the village, 
making his home at the tavern, occasionally taking a ramble 
into the country, and several times visiting the rendezvous. 
Kow, however, it began to be time for him to bestir himself 
in a business way. Farmers were beginning to thrash their 
grain, which would soon be for market; and it behooved him 
to begin to purchase, in order to continue in the character of 
a speculator, that he might still, unsuspected, practice his 
treachery and deception upon the confiding people. He, 
therefore, resolved to remain at Weston during the whole 
winter, and to proceed, as soon as expedient, to purchase a 
large amount of grain, on which, by shipping it to Pittsburg, 
he had ascertained that be could realize a large profit. 

Though his conscience was not yet quite dead, he was far 
from being repentant, or he would probably have removed 
far from the scenes of his crime?, instead of hovering about 
them. Conscience still feebly chided him for not abandoning 
his evil ways, and endeavoring to make amends, by a life of 
honesty, for the misdeeds* he had committed, and often har- 
rowed him for that worst ot all his crimes, the murde]>of 
Henry White. But he drank frequently, and bade conscience 
avaunt. Visions of that terrible night on which the old man 
died in the cave often visited him in his sleep, aud even 


68 


The white hocks. 


dreams of crimes he had never done. Once he dreamed of 
again seeing Henry White, as he had seen him in the cav® 
on the night of his death, with his pale face covered with 
blood, his hair tangled, his eyes starting from their sockets, 
his arms moving in wild gesticulations. But the scene was 
changed. He was not in the cave. He stood at the brink 
of a fearful precipice on the mountain. Suddenly, in a voice 
so loud that all the people of the settlement seemed to hear, 
he shouted that Philip Kirke was his murderer, and that he 
would have revenge. Then, in his dream, Philip rushed 
upon the old man to dash him over the precipice, and thus 
silence him ; but he called aloud for help, and his daughter 
Mary suddenly appeared on the scene, and came to his as- 
sistance. Ere she reached them, though, he seized his victim 
and hurled him over the brink, then turned, seized Mary, 
and threw her after him ; but as she fell she clutched his 
arm, and he lost his balance and fell headlong from the dizzy 
height, uttering a scream, in the midst of which he awoke to 
find himself springing from his bed in the village tavern, and 
the cold sweat starting from every pore. 

It was a pleasant afternoon in September that Philip, 
having regaled himself at Tony’s bar, sauntered from the 
village and walked out the mountain road. A little more 
than a mile from the village this road was intersected by 
another, which led on the one hand to Brownsville, and on 
the other to Fairmont — then a flourishing town in Western 
Virginia. On reaching this road (which, by the way, ran 
but a few hundred yards east of Henry White’s house) Philip 
turned to the left, thus taking his way down the river. 
Several miles brought him to the house of an old farmer, of 
the name of Daniel Patton, with, whom he bargained for 
Beverai hundred bushels of wheat and rye. He was urged 
to remain for supper, which he did, and near evening he 
took his departure. But he did not at once return to the 
village, although he started in that direction. He no sooner 
found himself beyond sight of the farmer’s house, than he 


THE MYSTERIOUS FIGURE. 


69 


left the road and struok through the thick woods and across 
the rough hills toward the river. About sunset he reached 
the brink of an almost pe-rpendicular height that overlooked 
the Monongahela, and found himself standing about two hun- 
dred feet above the robbers’ den. Signals having been 
exchanged, he climbed carefully down the craggy rocks, and 
stood upon the narrow shelf in front of the cave, where he 
was welcomed by no less a personage than William Hardin, 
Esquire. 

“ Hilloa, captain ! This vou ?” exclaimed that individual. 

“ Yes. How are you. Bill ?” was the resj>onse. 

“ I’m well, and mighty glad to see you, I can tell you! 
Why, I begun to think you was dead ! It’s been nigh on to 
two weeks since you was here, ain’t it?” 

“Yes, about that time,” returned Philip. “I don’t like 
\o come too often ; it’s always attended with some risk. But 
where are the boys?” 

“ Oh, they’ve jes started fur the New Market road, t’other 
side o’ the river.” 

“ What, something on hand ?” 

“Yes; they’re goin’ to tap a old feller ’at’s to come along 
that way to-night.” 

“ Do you think they will. manage it well?” 

“ Oh, yes. I give ’em the d’rections, an’ if they only fol- 
low ’em they’ll do the matter up in good style. I’d a gone 
along myself, only I’ve jis got back from a excursion to New 
Market, where I passed myself off for a gentleman, and got 
the information about this fellow slick enough. You see he’s 
goin’ to Pittsburg to buy goods, an’ as he wants to take the 
stage from Brownsville to-morrow mornin’, he’s goin’ there 
to-night on hoss-back, calkelatin’ to send the hoss back by 
itself, as it is a sensible critter, and knows the road very 
well.” 

“ What time will they return ?” asked Philip. 

“ Well,” returned Bill, “ as the old chap was to start early 
in the morning, so as to git to Brownsville in time for the 


70 


THE WPIITE ROCKS. 


morning stage, I reckon he’ll git to where they’re waitin’ fnr 
him about eight or nine o’clock. So they’ll be sure to be 
back by ’leven at the furdest.” 

“Then I will not got to see them.** 

“Why, you’re not goin’ back to — what-ye-call-em to^ 
night ?” 

“ To Y/’eston ? Yes. It would not do for me to stay away, 
without being able, in case I were asked, to give an account 
of where I slept.” 

“ That’s a fact, captain. 'Well, what’s the news, anyhow?” 

“ Nothing strange : everything is quiet at the village. 
The people are still determined to find out the robbers whom 
they have never seen yet, and to unravel the mystery of 
Henry White’s disappearance. They are confident he has 
been killed by the same men who have been so adroitly rob- 
bing in the settlement for the last two years. I tell you, 
Bill, it mpvkes me shudder sometimes to hear them talk at the 
village of what they will do when they capture the robbers. 
There is an organized party, with a reckless young fellow of 
the name of Koland at their head, who are to make it their 
business to search for our rendezvous, or to pursue any of us 
who may be seen attempting to rob — that is, in case an alarm 
can be given in time. It would go hard with us if we were 
to get into their hands; but that we never will.” 

“ I reckon not. If they ’re sharp enough to find this place. 
I’ll give ’em my head an’ welcome. They never think o’ 
suspecting you, of course?” 

“Oh, no! I’m a popular fellow with the people of the 
settlement. Besides, I was robbed a couple of times myself, 
you know. I intend to make myself agreeable for a long 
time to come, too. I will go into speculating pretty freely 
this fall, and that will keep off all : suspicion. Meantime, 
whenever I learn of an opportunity for you to make a haul I 
will apprise you of it. If we are discreet, we can accumulate 
enough money in another year or two to make us all rich ; 


THE MYSTERIOUS FIGURE. 


71 


-then we can settle down and act the gentleman for the re- 
mainder of our lives. Such is my plan.” 

Yes, such was Philip’s programme for the future, and a 
very good arrangement it was, though destined never to 
reach its consummation, for “man proposes and God 
poses.” 

“ A good idee, captain,” said Bill. “ But I hope you won’t 
think o’ leavin’ us as long as we keep the ’stablishment 
goin’?” 

“ Oh, no,” returned Philip, with a show of that fidelity 
that exists even among thieves. “ Oh, no I While the crowd 
hangs together I’ll be one, but — ” 

“ If them fellers ketch us,” interrupted Bill, inclined to be 
witty, “ we’ll be apt to hang together in a peculiar sort 
o’ way.” 

“ So we might,” said Philip, smiling ; “ but, as I was about 
to remark, when we think we have enough money to make 
us all comfortable, we can divide it fairly, and each man may 
set up in life as he may fancy. How much cash have we in 
the cave now ?” 

“ Not less than twenty thousand. I think in two years we 
kin make it a hundred thousand.” 

“ I hope so. In that time I can make ten thousand by 
speculating in grain and cattle. That will be a nice sum to 
add to the pile, you know, and I may as well be at work. 
Meanwhile I intend to have a gay time, Bill. They consider 
me a handsome young fellow in the settlement — ’* 

“ I do n’t wonder.” 

“ — And I am alwa5’'s welcome to the social parties, dances, 
corn-huskings, sleighings, riding-excursions, and the like. 
Now, wouldn’t it be a joke, Bill, if I were to take it into my 
head to get married in a year or two from now, and settle 
down in life?’* 

“ I would n’t be surprised if you did, captain ; you’re 
young yit, and I s’pose you’ll have to have a taste o’ mater- 


72 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


onial life. But as for me/I think women is a bad institoo- 
tion. Beware of ’em, cap.” 

Oh, the villian I to entertain such ungenerous sentiments 
toward the ladies 1 

Well, Bill,” said Philip, ** before I take my leave I wish 
to assure you that I will never dissolve partnership with you 
and the boys while you remain here. But,” he resumed, 
after a pause, “ strange as you may think it, I have serious 
thoughts sometimes. Bill. I occasionally think of marrying 
when I have sufficient capital — of settling quietly down on a 
farm somewhere, and of passing my remaining days in 
honesty. Such a proceeding, I think, would atone for my 
past misdeeds. Now, Bill, if I should marry in this settle- 
ment, who, do you suppose, would be the happy woman on 
whom I should bestow my name?” 

** I have no idee, I’m sure; I do n’t know anybody in the 
neighborhood.” 

“ Then I’ll tell you. It would be no other than the daugh- 
ter of Henry White.” 

“ Is it possible? That’s kind o* romantic.” 

“Yes, strange as it may seem, she is the only girl in the 
Bettlement whom I would marry. She is handsome, intelli- 
gent, and industvious, and falls heir to a goodly amount of 
property. Besides, there is a fellow in the settlement whom 
I hate, and I am sure, loves this same girl ; and I would 
marry her to rend his heart, if for nothing else. That fellow 
is no other than this same Boland, who is at the head of the 
party that is to hunt us to the earth. I believe he and I 
were born enemies. We hate each other, and we both know 
it, although no ill word has ever passed between us. He is 
a rather popular fellow in the settlement, too; but no more 
BO than I am.” 

“ He would git to be rather more so, if him and his gang 
was to find us^all out,” suggested Bill, 

“Yes; but that must never be.” 

“ It never will. But have you seen your gal lately ?” 


THE MYSTERIOUS FIGURE. 


73 




** No, not since I returned to the village. She has left the 
old homestead, and now resides with an uncle near the moun- 
tain. I vrill make it my business to call soon. I feel sure 
she will receive me with favor. Oh, if she knew. — But 
hark ?” 

The shrill notes of the whippoorwill were at this moment 
heard far below, and the sound echoed strangely against the 
bushes on the opposite side of the nook, as it arose. It waa 
now nearly dark. 

“ Can the boys be back so soon?” whispered Philip. 

“ No, indeed, unless some accident has happened.” 

Might this be a trap to catch us?” 

“ Should n’t wonder. May be our signal has been found 
out, and some of them cusses, not knowin’ exactly where we 
are, is callin’ us to ’em.” 

“ I scarcely know whether it would be expedient to 
answer. Hark! there it is again!” 

The sharp cry of the whippoorwill again ascended from 
the quiet cove below. 

“ I think I’ll answer it,” said Bill. 

“Do so,” said Philip. 

Bill placed a whistle to his lips, and uttered a sound simi- 
iar to that which they had heard. It was responded to from 
below by three distinct notes. 

“ Ah, that’s too well done for a green hand,” said Bill. 

“ Yes, the boys must have returned for some reason,” said 
Philip. “ Let us go down and meet them ; but first get a 
pair of pistols, lest we should meet enemies.” 

Having armed themselves, they proceeded to descend. 
When they reached the water at the base of the height, they 
found their four companionsdn-crime sitting in the boat. 

“ Coast clear?” one of them asked. 

“ Yes, all right,” replied Bill. “ But what brings you back 
80 soon ?” 

“ We went twenty-four hours too soon.” ^ 

“How do you make that out?” asked BilL 


74 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


“’Kase, when we had got across the river, and was ahont 
half-way to onr place, we very sndden and onexpected re- 
membered that to-day ain’t to-morrer.'* 

** Why, ain’t to-day Tuesday 

“Not unless Tuesday follers Sunday, which it don’t if I 
have any sorb o’ recollection o’ my schooldays,” said Sam, 
who was acting as spokesman. “ Now, Bill, don’t you mind 
it was only yisterday you went to church like a good feller, 
in New Market?” 

“ So it was,” said Bill. “ I made the darndest mistake in 
the world. Sent you the wrong night. Never mind ; to-, 
morrer night’s the night, an’ I’ll go myself. But say, I vd 
got a visitor,” 

“Whor 

“ Here he is, do n’t you see him ?” 

“ Why, it’s the captain ! Hilloa, cap, glad to see you I 
How ’ve you been? When d’ye come?” And the party at 
once landed, made the boat fast, and greeted Philip Kirke. 

“ I am only on a short visit, and must soon be off,” re- 
turned Philip. “So let us go up to the cave. Have you 
anything up there to drink. Bill ?” 

“ Oh, yes; alius keep a little; so come on.” 

With this the whole party ascended to the cave. 

“Looks like home, don’t it?” remarked Bill, as he pro- 
duced the stone jug. 

“ Yes, this is more like home to me than any place else,** 
replied Philip, helping himself to a copious drink. “ I only 
wish there were no unpleasant recollections connected with 
it.” 

“Oh, them things don’t bother ^5, captain; and when 
you ’re my age, they won’t bother you. I remember when a 
triflin’ thing like that did give me considerable bad feelins, 
and even kep’ me from sleepin’ good some nigh’ts ; but that 
was when I had a darned nonsensical thing into me what 
they call comcicace — a thing every fellow ort to git clear of 


thk mysterious figure. 


75 


about as quick as be kin. It’s a big drawback on success in 
life,” said Bill, with something of the air of a philosopher. 

“ I believe you,” returned Philip, who could not help 
thinking, at that moment, what a delightful thing it would 
be to get irrevocably and unreservedly rid of his own annoy- 
ing conscience. 

At length he took leave of his companions, and made his 
way through the dark woods toward the “ Brownsville and 
Fairmont” road. After a somewhat trying walk through 
the gloomy forest, he emerged into the highway, and, more 
at ease, walked southward. In an hour he reached the 
mountain road, and turned toward the village. 

As he passed the deserted house of Plenry White, some 
unpleasant thoughts and strange feelings began to intrude 
themselves upon him. He almost dreaded to turn his eyes 
in the direction of the now gloomy house, lest he should see 
the murdered man beckoning to him from a window, or 
emerging from the dark wood beyond ; although his better 
sense ridiculed such ideas. He breathed more freely when 
he had left the deserted farm-house several hundred yards 
behind, and with a lighter step approached the village. 

It was nearly ten o'clock when he arrived upon the hill 
overlooking Weston. His mind was still fraught with un- 
comfortable, thoughts, the result of passing Henry White’s 
house, ana he was just in front of the churchyard when he 
was startled by a loud scream, and looking in the direction, 
he caught a glimpse of a white figure near the centei of the 
inclosure, while he heard the hasty footsteps of one whom he 
at first failed to see, approaching him ; and then, ooking 
more closely, he descried a dark form coming toward him as 
on the wings of the wind. While he stood rooted in his 
tracks with astonishment and fear, the board fence facing the 
road received a shock that made it rattle and quiver from 
end to end, and the approaching figure for a moment was 
unaccountably lost to view. While he still stood hesitating 
between amazement and terror, the strange figure again aroao 


76 


THE WHITE HOCKS, 


to view, clearly described against the sky, emitted a piercing 
shriek, and fell with a dull sound into the road, but a few 
feet from him. Scarcely knowing what he did in his bewil- 
derment, and trembling from head to foot with fright, Philip 
shrank back among the bushes at the roadside, almost touch- 
ing the upright form of a man who stood concealed there, 
and, in his guilty fear, uttered the exclamation, 

‘‘ Great heaven ! is that the ghost of Henry White, come 
to judge me?” 

The form of the man that stood beside him remained mo- 
tionless and unseen. 

As the reader will surmise, it was the fleeing form of Hed 
Stanton, frightened from the graveyard by Sallie Crane, that 
BO terrified Philip Kirke; and the latter was dark figure 
No. 2 that darted into the bushes, as described in the pre- 
ceding chapter; but who was the other — he that had con- 
cealed himself there a moment before, and stood by to hear 
his muttered words? 

Beware, Philip Kirke ! The avenger is now upon thy 
track ! He is fiercer and more relentless than the blood- 
hound, and sooner or later he will overtake thee 1 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE STOLEN HORSE. 

Early on the ensuing morning, John Duffey and Will 
Hempstead, mounted on two spirited horses, crossed the 
river and started on their projected adventure. 

“What is your plan, John?” asked Will, when they had 
traveled a little way. 


THE STOLEN HORSE. 


77 


** My plan is to go to the fellow who has the horse, and, 
pretending that I wish to buy or trade, ask to see him; thp.n 
when he brings him' out I will coolly mount him and ride off. 
The only point as to which I feel some hesitation is whether 
to knock Mr. Job Welles down or not.” 

“ As to that,” returned Will, “ it will be well enough to do 
BO provided you can; but judging from what I have heard 
of Welles, the man who attempts such a thing and fails, finds 
himself placed in a rather awkward position. However, 
there are two of us against him, and I don’t presume he 
would come off more than second best in a contest for the 
norse.” 

“ But,” said John, thoughtfully, “ there is another point in 
the case, of which I have not thought before ; we have now 
two horses, and when we get mine, we’ll have three on our 
hands. Now, it might be just a little difficult to manage 
three horses and fight Job Welles (and perhaps one or two 
of his crowd) at the same time.” 

“ True,” replied Will, “ but can we not leave one with a 
farmer a mile or two this side of the place ?” 

“That is just what I was thinking of, and it is our only 
course. I’ll leave this one I am riding, and you can accom- 
pany me on horseback to the house of Job Welles. When 
he brings out my pony, I’ll jump on him, and we’ll ride 
away.” 

“ A very good arrangement,” said Will. “ But suppose he 
should not bring the pony out?” 

“ Ah, if he has him, he certainly will; for as he no doubt 
either stole the horse himself, or bought it at such a low 
price from the thief that he could not help knowing it was 
stolen, he will be very ready to dispose of it, if he can do so 
at all profitably. I do not think he will suspect me to be 
the owner; he never saw me before, though I saw hhn. He 
was in Weston one day about a year ago, got on a spree, and 
r)egan to play the bully, not supposing we had anybody 
about the place who could fight. But it chanced that Ned 


78 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


Stanton was in town that same day, and you may rest 
assured it wasn’t lon^ till thev got tocrether.” 

O o o 

“Then they had a fight? I think I do remember of hear- 
ing of it, though I did not know that Welles was the fellow.*’ 
“ Yes, they had a fight, and a big one, too. They fought 
over about an acre of street in front of Tony Baily’s, and the 
result was that Ned finally licked him so bad that he will 
probably never forget it as long as he lives, and, above all, 
will not be likely to visit Weston again. I, of course, was 
among the spectators, but I am sure he did not notice me; 1 
don’t think he saw anybody that day whom he will remem- 
ber, save Ned, and him he’ll remember well.” 

“ Ha, ha ! Good for Ned ! But did n’t we scare him some 
last night?” exclaimed Will, as the graveyard scene of the 
previous evening recurred to his mind. 

“ Yes, for once Ned must give in that he was frightened. 
But it will never do for him to know that it was all a trick 
played on him by us. We must never divulge the fact to 
any one that it was Sallie Crane, and not a real ghost, Avhom 
Ned called forth from the grave. If he were to discover the 
trick he’d lick us worse than he did Job Welles.” 

“ I wonder if the affair will make him a quieter fellow?” 
“ Scarcely,” said John, who knew Ned Stanton best. “ It 
may cool him down for a few months, but that is all. Bom- 
bast is a second nature to him, and he’ll never be anything 
else but the same noisy Ned Stanton.” 

Thus conversing, the young men rode on at an easy pacc* 
Their destination was a village known as Waynesburg. It 
was twenty miles from Weston, in the dii*ection of Wheeling, 
and it was the direct road from Weston to Wheeling that led 
through Waynesburg. This road, about five miles from Wes- 
ton, crossed a public road leading from New Market, a little 
village in Greens county, near the Virginia line, to Browns- 
ville, Fayette county. * 

Waynesburg was the home of Job Welles, a notorious gam- 
bler, bully and horse-jockey. There were at that Lim^ a 


THE STOLEN HORSE. 


79 


great many such characters in the new settlements, so that 
it was often difficult to execute the civil law. It was not an 
unusual thing for the injured party to take the law in his 
own hands, and to obtain justice by a most summary proceed- 
ing, as did John DufFey on this occasion. It would have 
required a larger party than the two young men to go to 
Waynesburg and openly take a horse from Job Welles by 
force, as he was surrounded by a number of “lesser lights,’* 
who partook of his 'own nature, and who were ever ready to 
lend him assistance. It was, therefore, only by stratagem 
that our young friends could hope to succeed. Waynesburg 
was at that time freely acknowledged as the worst spot in 
the county for rowdy characters. There lived in that neigh- 
borhood a score or tvro of young and middle-aged men, cf 
whom Job Wellos was chief, who did little else than gamble, 
drink, carouse and trade horses and dogs. They were even 
suspected of worse things, but there was no direct evidence 
against them, and no one cared to incur their ill-will by 
making investigations concerning them, for they were really 
feared by the honest portion of the community. 

“John,” said Will, when the young men had arrived within 
a few miles of their destination, “ do you know at what part 
of the village Job Welleg^lives ?’* 

“No; but we can easily learn by inquiring; we’ll stop at 
the tavern first and get dinner, you know.” 

“ I know w’e can easily find his house, so far as that is con- 
cerned ; but I was thinking that should it chance to be located 
beyond, we might meet with difficulty as we return through 
the village; for you know there is always a hard crowd about 
the place.” 

“ I did not think of that before,** replied John ; “but then 
\;e 11 be mounted, and need have no fear.** 

“ But it wouldiffie very awkward to get a pistol-bullet sent 
into one of our horses, or one of ourselves, as we come flyiiig 
through. Now, I would suggest, that if we learn on arriving 
at the village that Job’s house is beyond, we at once make 


80 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


up our minds to ride off with your horse in the direction ot 
Wheeling, take the first byroad to the right or left, make a 
halficircuit of the village, and come into this road again. By 
that course we will not only escape some danger, but will 
mislead Welles and his friends as to our destination, in case 
they should pursue us. They will suppose we are making 
for Wheeling.” 

“ Well said,” responded John. “ A good idea, and I think 
we will act upon it. However, it yet remains to be seen 
where the fellow’s house is located. Should it be beyond the 
village, then let it be understood that we are to gallop off in 
the direction of Wheeling. Should it be on the right or left, 
we will take the road that leads us directly aw’ay from the 
village. You are aware that there is a road running through 
the place, and crossing this road ?” 

“Oh, yes; a road leading from New Market to Wash- 
ington.” 

“Yes.” 

“ Well, I think we have it all arranged. It is now lime to 
leave one of the horses in the care of some one who lives 
near the road; it is not prudent to leave it too near the vil- 
lage, lest it should be heard of by some chance, before we 
return t-o claim it. Suppose we lea^ it at the first house?” 

“ It will be best, I think,” agreed Duffey. 

They soon came within sight of a farmer’s house, near 
which a narrow country road turned from the main one to 
the right. 

“ We may chance to come out on this road, in case w^e find 
it necessary to take a roundabout course,” suggested Will. 

“ We may ; and it will be convenient to have the extra 
horse near. I wonder w’here it leads to?” 

** I do n’t know. Probably across the country till it inter- 
Bects some more public road.” * 

“ No doubt. I think we can easily reach it, though we 
m.ay be obliged to ride a long distance around.” 

John now dismounted and walked forward, while Will, 


THE STOLEN HORSE. 


81 


talking tlie 1 ’id. rein, led the horse up a little lane to the 
farm-house. The farmer readily agreed to take care of the 
supertiiious horse tdl he should return for it, and Will rode 
on again, and was soon ^ith his companion. 

They reached the vJilage at about twelve o’clock, and pro- 
ceeded at once to a tavern, where their horse was fed and 
their dirmers served. was no unusual thing in those days 
to sec two men ^ravelii wdth but one horse between them, 
walking and riding alteraalely ; so they excited no curiosity 
or wonder at the inn. Linner over, they began to hint at 
finding another horse, and .'sked the landlord whether there 
were any horse-dealers in the vicinity. The latter named 
several persons who dealt in horse-flesh — a Mr. Job Welles 
among the rest. He also pointed out their residences — that 
of Welles being an ordinary old-fashioned stone house, about 
three hundred yards from the immediate village, and on the 
Wheeling road. Duffey and his friend thereupon took their 
horse, paid their bill, and proceeded at once to the residence 
of J. Welles, Esquire. 

On arriving in front of the house they were greeted by five 
unreasonably large dogs, who barked savagely, and looked 
altogether as though they might .^e in the habit of dining on 
a. man or two, or a horse, or something of that sort. Their 
barking soon brought th.^ master out, whom John at once 
recognized, though it was evident that the two young men 
were strangers to him. 

He was an ill-looking fellow, of thirty-five. His face was 
covered with a beard of about two weeks’ growth, and his 
hatless head with short, stiff, reddish hair. He was not more 
than five feet six inches in height, but rather heavy, and evi- 
dently very strong. He had a short, thick neck, heavy square 
shoulders, large muscular limbs, and enormous^hands. When 
he spoke his voice harmonized delightfully with his appear- 
ance. 

“What do you want?” he gruffly asked, -which was tis 
gentlest and most polite manner of inquiring one’s pleasure. 

6 


82 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


** My friend and I are traveling,” replied Duffey, and we 
have but one horse between us. We had two when we started 
from Baltimore, but one of them died coming over the moun- 
tains. As it is awkward and unhandy riding turn about, we 
have come to the conclusion either to buy another, or sell the 
one we have, and both foot it. I was told that you dealt in 
horses.” 

** So I do. I’m alius in for a buy, sell, or a swap. Which 
way are you goin’ ?” 

“ Toward Wheeling,” replied John ; which was no false- 
hood, for they certainly expected to go in that direction for a 
short distance. 

“ Well,” said Job, thinking this a good opporhinity to get 
rid of the stolen horse he had, and at the same time to send 
it where its owner would probably never see it, “ I’ve got as 
purty a boss as you ever seed, an’ I’ll sell him reasonable. 
He’s a good boss, and I raly do n’t like to part with him ; but 
he’s one more than I want, an’ I liaint had him long ; I only 
bought him to ’commodate a friend o’ mine that needed 
money. D’ye like t-o see him ?” 

“ Why,” returned Duffey, hesitatingly, “ you might bring 
him out ; though I’m afraid he’ll cost more than I can afford 
to pay.” 

“ W^ait a minute, an’ I’ll bring him out. I’ll put a saddle 
on, an’ you kin try how he moves,” said Welles, leaving oui 
friends and walking to his stable near by. 

“ Now, Will,” said John, when he had left them, “if it is 
my horse he leads out you’ll recognize him, wmnt you?” 

“Oh, yes; I know him almost as well as yourself.” 

“ Then remain in your saddle, and when I get my horse by 
the bridle I’ll mount him, and we’ll away toward Wheeling.’* 

“ I’ll be ready.” 

“ You have your pistols with you, have you ?” 

“ Yes, and my loaded riding-whip too, if it comes to that.” 

“ Good ! I think we would be enough for a dozen of Job’s 
crowd, should they chance to be near, or to pursue and over* 


THE STOLEN HORSE. 


83 


tate us. When I mount, ride near and hand me your whip-, 
.Vll show yon something delightful. Your horse will go with- 
out ih I suppose.” 

** Oh, yes ; I can make him dart away, when the time 
comes.” 

“ Very well. There he comes. My horse, as I live !’* 

Yes; I see that at a glance.” 

Welles now emerged from the stable, leading a beautiful 
chestnut-colored pony, sac died and bridled.' 

He is a nice animal,” remarked DufFey, as Welles led the 
pony out upon the road. “ Now, how much would you think 
of asking for him ?” 

“ Why,” replied Welles, with some hesitation, ‘‘ the fact is, 
I paid a hundred dollars for him myself ; but as I do n’t want 
to keep him, and as I made a good trade or two yesterday, 
I’ll take ninety for him.” 

‘*No less than that?” asked Duffey. 

“Why, he’s cheap at that! Jis’ git on him, an* take a 
canter out the road, an’ if you do n’t say he’s cheap at 
ninety, I’ll give him to you for nothin*.” 

“ That I think you had better do,** said Duffey, coolly, as 
he mounted, “ for it*s a stolen horse anyhow.** 

“You’re a liar!” shouted Welles, his suspicions i.ruused in 
a moment; and as it flashed upon him how easily the stran- 
gers might ride away, and he on foot and unable to pursue, 
he sprang forwmrd and grasped the bridle-rein. 

But at that moment Dufley seized his companion’s riding- 
whip, and with the loaded end dealt the rascal’s hand a 
crushing uiow, that at once released the bridle-rein from his 
grasp. Then, reversing the whip, he gave him a fierce cut 
across the face with the lash, touched his pony, and darted 
a'way with the swiftness of the wind, followed closely by Will, 
at the same time shouting : 

“Hurrah. for Job Welles, the rascal! Ho for Wheeling! 
Hurrah!” 

The duped ruflian, with a volley of bitter curses, Lustily 


S4 


THE AYHITE KOCKS. 


drew a pistol from ris pocket and fir.ed after the receding* 
equestiians, but without effect ; then rushed like mad to his 
stable to prepare his best horse for pursuit. But his hand 
was so injured by the blow from the whip, that he could 
scarcely use it, and he found it extremely difficult to saddle 
and bridle a horse with one hand. The horse, too, which 
was a little playful at times, was averse to receiving the bit 
ir. his mouth at once, preferring to have a little sport over 
the affair before admitting it between his teeth; and so Job, 
unlike the ancient gentleman whose name he bore, fell to 
cursing and swearing in his impatience and rage, and finally 
to beating the animal with a rake-handle, which was only 
wasting time. It was all of a quarter of an hour before he 
was in the saddle, and then remembering that should he go 
alone he would have two to deal with, he rode quickly to the 
village, and collected five or six of his companions, who at 
once saddled their horses and joined him. Thus another 
quarter of an hour slipped away, and by that time the fugi- 
tives had probably traveled six miles. However, when all 
were ready, they rode off at a rapid pace, all well mounted, 
and in good spirits at the prospect of a safe adventure. 

“ I know w^e kin ketch ’em afore they git to Wherelin’,’* 
Baid the illiterate Job, with an oath. 

“ xxre they goir.’ there ?” asked one. 

“Yes, I heerd ’em say so. Thunder, but my hand hurts! 
Oh, that cuss ! I’ll pound him into a jelly when we ketch 
’em!” said Job, savagely. And he fell to cursing and swear- 
ing to beguile time, as they went careering along. 

As, at present, we have nothing further to do with this 
interesting party, Ave will briefly follow them to the conclu- 
Bion of their adventure, and leave them. They traveled that 
afternoon a matter of twenty-five miles, directly toward 
Wheeling, it never occurring to them that the fugitives had 
left that road by the first transverse by-road. . Late that 
night they returned from their wild-goose chase in no very 
amiable humor; which latter remark applies more especially 


THE STOLEN HORSE. 


85 


to Job, who bad lost a horse for which he had paid the thief 
thirty dollars, and who had a most painful hand by which to 
remember the affair, to say nothing of its being likely to 
render him unfit for any active service in a rough-and-tumble 
fight for six months to come. 

Duffey and his friend, after leaving Mr. Welles so uncere- 
moniously, and with such an unaffectionate farewell, rode 
about five miles out the Wheeling road ere they reached any 
avenue by which to change their course. Here they turu'^^ 
to the right upon a by-road that was so little used as to be 
overgrown with grass; and after a circuit of fifteen miles, 
they emerged into the Weston road, four miles from Waynes- 
burg, finding themselves near the farm-house at which they 
had left one of their horses in the morning. It was now 
nearly five o’clock. While John rode slowly in the direction 
of Weston, Will proceeded to the farm-house for the extra 
horse. The farmer at once recognized him, and returned the 
animal, refusing to receive any pay for his kindness. Will 
then bade him good-day, rode away, and soon joined his 
companion. He then mounted the Iresh horse, and led the 
other by the rein. 

As the animals had all been unusually exercised that day, 
and as there was no probable danger of pursuit, the adven- 
turers allowed them to take their way at a leisurely pace, 
and it was nine o’clock, and the night rather dark, when 
they found themselves crossing the New Market and Browns- 
ville road, five miles from Weston. 

Just here they were startled by a cry of “ Murder 1 Help !” 
issuing from a wood immediately on their left, through which 
the transverse road lay. 

“Hark!” exclaimed John. “There’s something v/rong. 
Will, and we must see to it.” And springing from his horse, 
he tied the extra animal f which he was at that time leading) 
to a sapling, and quickly remounting, dashed down the road 
in the direction of the cry, followed by his comr; de 

They had not gone fifty paces, when they arrived upon the 


86 


THE WHITE R0CK3. 


scene of a desperate struggle between a traveler and three 
robbers. It was very dark, but they clearly saw the nature 
of the case, and John, drawing a pistol, fired over the heads 
of the struggling parties, which he intended should have the 
effect of frightening away the villains. Two of them did run 
away through the dark shades of the wood, but the third, 
more bold than the others, stood his ground, and drawing a 
pistol, fired at the intruders. The ball whistled past the ear 
of Duftey, and the rufiian sprang forward with a knife in his 
hand, as was afterward ascertained, and the result might 
have been serious to Duffey, but at that critical moment Will 
dashed up and dealt the villain a blow upon the head with 
the butt of his riding-whip, that felled him senseless to the 
earth. Then, lest the others should return, he shouted in a 
loud voice, 

“ Pursue the others ! They ’re in the wood !” 

If the rascals still lurked about, this would convince them 
that a large party was in pursuit, and thus effectually 
frighten them away. 

“Whom have we here?” asked Duffey. 

“Are you friends?” asked the traveler, who had been 
knocked down by the robbers a moment before, now arising 
to his feet. , 

“Yes. Have you been robbed?” 

“No, my money is still safe; but in another minute it 
would have been gone, and my life too, had you not come to 
my rescue.” ^ 

“ Did those rascals waylay you ?” asked Will. 

“ Yes. I am on my way to Brownsville, and I have a sum 
of money with me. I was riding slowly along here a few 
minutes ago, when my horse suddenly received a blow that 
was no doubt intended foj me, and as he started he was 
seized and held by some one, while two others dragged me 
from the saddle. I resisted and called for help, though hope- 
lessly enough I thought, and the thief that had seized my 
liovs^ now let go, and the three attacked me. One struck me 


THE STOLEN HORSE. 


87 


with a heavy weapon, and felled me to the ground just as 
you rode up. Ha! You’ve knocked one of them, have 
you?” said the traveler, for the first time pirceivin^ the form 
of the stunned robber lying near him. 

“ Yes,” replied Duffey ; “ and we had better tie him before 
he comes to. What shall we do it with?” 

“One of the extra bridle-reins,” suggested Will. 

“ The very thing,” said Duffey. “ There are two reins to 
my bridle, and I’ll take one off and tie the fellow’s wrists 
together.” And dismounting from h^ horse, he soon put 
this plan into execution. 

“Well, my friends,” said the grateful traveler, “ you are 
strangers to me, but you have rendered me an invaluable 
service, and not without danger to yourselves. I have three 
thousand dollars here ; you ’re welcome to it. Take it I 
You ’ve saved my life, and — ” 

“ We want no reward for it,” interrupted Duffey. 

“ No, indeed,” added Will. 

“ Who are you?” asked the stranger. 

“Our names are Will Hempstead and John Duffey. We 
live at Weston. We are glad to have been able to do any 
one such a service. We wish no reward for doing a duty 
which no one but a coward would shrink from. In saving 
you from these rascals, and especially in capturing one of 
them, we feel as much pleasure as you do in escaping them. 
But where is your horse? You were riding, I believe?” 

“ He ran oflT toward Brownsville, but he will not go far. 
Listen 1 I hear him now.” 

The neigh of a horse at this moment echoed through the 
lonely wood. . 

“ I’ll soon bring him to you,” said Duffey, mounting his 
pony. “ Will, remain till I return.” And he rode off in the 
direction of the sound. 

In five minutes he returned with the stranger’s horse. 

“ Will you proceed on your journey ?” he asked. 

“ 1 am not much hurt,” returned the traveler, “and I think 


88 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


I will. ' I can never thank you sufficiently for the service 
you .have rendered me this night. My name is Eoss; I am 
A merchant of New Market. Whenever you come to our 
town, call and see me. If I can ever serve you in any way 
I shall gladly do so, though I should sacrifice all I possess in 
the world. I will never forget your brave conduct.” 

Come, no thanks. We are already sufficiently rewarded 
by knowing that we have served you.” 

“ Then good-by. Do n’t forget my name, and do n’t forget 
that you will be doing me an additional favor by calling on 
me and making yourself at home in my house, whenever you 
come to New Market. Remember, it will always be a plea- 
sure to me to see you. So, again, good-by.” And the 
traveler mounted his horse, and rode slowly away. 

“ Good-by I Good-by ! And a safe journey.” 

** Will,” said Duffey, “ I am pleased with this adventure.” 

“ And I,” returned Will. ** I would not have missed it for 
the world. That man’s gratitude is better than a thousand 
fortunes. Td rather have it.” 

“ We’ve made a warm friend of him. But how will we 
manage this fellow ?” 

“ I’ll carry him in front of me on my horse,” returned 
Will, who was the stronger of the two. “ The villain 1 He’ll 
not get away from me. Just help me to get him up, will 
you.” 

The still insensible form of the robber was lifted to the 
back of Will’s horse. He soon partially recovered his con- 
eciousness, and was able to sit upon the back of the animal, 
supported by Will. Duffey then mounted his horse, and 
they rode from the wood into the Weston road, where the 
other horse was still safe. John loosed him, and leading him 
by the bridle-rein as before, rode toward Weston, accom- 
panied by Will and his prisoner. 


THE CAPTIVE OUTLAW. 


89 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE CAPTIVE OUTLAW. 

Oh the evening of the ghost affxir in the churchyard, it 
was not until Ned Stanton had been resuscitated and the 
whole party moved off toward the village, that Philip Kirke 
emerged from his hiding place among the bushes. 

“This is strange,” he muttered. “I can’t make it out. 
What brought that feliow Stanton out here to the church- 
yard at this time of night? And who could that have been 
in white, that seemed to frighten him so? It must have 
been some trick. ITl overtake the party and learn all about 
it.” And he walked toward the village at a rapid pace. 

“ Yes, very strange,” muttered another, stepping out upon 
the road when Philip had gone. “Very strange, the wdiole 
affair — especially those words of your’s, Philip Kirke. I 
can’t make them out, at all. Certainly they were not in- 
tended for my ears ; they burst from him in his fright, when 
he little imagined who was standing beside him. I xvould not 
have him suspect that I heard them ; so I will return home. 
No one will know that I have been here to-night. I feel 
curious to know the meaning of that scene in the church- 
yard ; but I’ll learn that soon enough. I heard John Duffey’s 
voice among those who followed Ned out here, and that is 
pretty clear evidence that the noisy fellow has been the 
victim of some trick. I’ll go to Weston to-morrow night; 
then I’ll know all about it.” And be turned and walked 
away in the direction of the mountain. 

“Hilloa, boys! What’s up? Where have you been?** 
asked Pl ilip Kirke, on coming up with the party. 

“ Hilloa, Phil 1 That you?” said Tony. 


90 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


“ Yc0. What does it mean to see you fellows out here at 
this time of night? Not been at anybody’s melon-patch, I 
hope ?” said Philip, who feigned total ignorance of what he 
had seen. 

“Oh, no; but we’ve seen a little fun. Ned Stanton has 
just been treated to the biggest scare he ever had in his 
life.” 

“ Ned Stanton ! Where? How? He is not here !” 

. “ No,” replied Tony, “ he is not here now. But I’ll teli 
you all about it. Ned, Dick, John, and Will were in the 
bar-room this evening talking about ghosts, when Ned, as 
usual, boasted that he didn’t fear anything in the wide 
world, and least of all, ghosts. Moreover, he said he didn’t 
believe there were such things, and that he thought a grave- 
yard as comfortable and agreeable a place to lie down ai d 
•take a nap of a pleasant night as any other spot, and, if any 
difference, a little to be preferred over all other places. By 
and by John bantered him to go into the graveyard, and cry 
out, ‘ Come to judgment !’ and away Ned started, v/hile we 
followed to see if he would n’t back out by the time he should 
reach the gate. But no, open went the gate, in went Ned, 
and up onto a grave he got, and commenced to bawl out; 
when, strange enough, a ghost did appear, though where it 
came from, unless out of the ground, I can’t tell, for there 
w^as nothing to be seen when Ned first entered the gate. It 
must have come at his bidding, as it arose directly up at his 
feet, and stood beside him ; and the way he let a yell out of 
him, and the way he got out o’ that, was worth a treat, I 
assure you. He made a rush for the gate, but missed it and 
fell over the fence ; and we really thought at first that he 
had broken his neck, for he lay still as death for several 
minutes before he came to. When he did, he got up with an 
oath or two, and then made for the village. We started 
with him, but had not gone far when he began to think our 
company was not agreeable, and he broke away for towm like 
a racer. I suppose he has gone to get his horse, which is 


THE CAPTIVE OUTLAW. 


91 


Litched to my sign-post, and go home. I reckon he won t 
come to town again for a month.” 

“ But what became of the ghost?” asked Philip, with some 
concern. 

“ That is as much a mystery as where it came from,” re- 
plied Tony; ‘‘for the next time I looked that way, after 
seeing Ned get over the fence, it had vanished.” 

“Very singular,” remarked Philip, “unless it*s a trick 
Bome of you have played on him.” 

“ I’ll swear I know nothing of it,” said John. 

“ Nor I,” said Will Hempstead. 

• “ Nor I,” said Tony. 

“ If any fellow,” said Dick, speaking for the first time, 
“ has played a trick on him, and he finds it out, I would n’t 
be in that fellow’s boots for — for — ” And Dick said no 
more. He could n’t think of any thing of sufficient value to 
induce him to be in “ that fellow’s boots.” 

“ One certainly would run a risk by playing a trick on 
Ned,” said John. “/ shouldn’t like to try it. But, I say, 
Tony, he didn’t earn the whisky, did he?” 

“Why not?” 

“ Because, you know, the agreement provided that he was 
to call out, ‘ Come to judgment 1’ three times ; and you know 
very well he only did it once till the ghost appeared and he 
ran away.” 

“ True,” said Tony, “he didn’t win the whisky. By the 
way, Phil.,” he said, addressing Philip, “ you were not home 
for supper; I hope you have not gone without.” 

“ No fear of that,” replied Philip ; “ I have been at old 
Danny Patton’s. I bought some wheat and rye of him, and 
nothing would do but I must stay for supper. I have walked 
fdong leisurely since I left his house, which was a couple ot 
hours ago. What time is it now?” 

-‘About ten o’clock,” replied Tony. 

“So late?” 


92 


TEE WHITE ROCKS. 


“ Yes. It is a wonder you were not afraid to be out so 
late, on account of the robbers.” 

“ Well, I did n’t feel quite easy when I thought of them, I 
confess; but they did not occur to my mind till about fifteen 
minutes ago, since which I have walked quite briskly. 1 
am sorry I did not reach the graveyard in time to see the 
ghost.” 

“ If you had you would have seen Ned frightened for 
once.” 

When they reached the village, all went to Tony Baily’s, a 
“ smile ” went round, and they dispersed. 

“ I’ve heard where my horse is, Tony,” said DufFey, as he 
and Will left the bar-room. 

“ Have you ? That’s lucky, if you can only recover him,** 
said Tony. 

“ That I will do to-morrow, or have a fight,” returned 
John. ‘‘Will and I are going after him.” 

“What horse does he speak of?” asked Philip, when he 
and Tony were alone, Dick having already gone. 

“ A beautiful pony which his father gave him. It was 
stolen from him some time ago, and he has searched the 
whole country over in vain. I suppose he has at last learned 
where it is.” 

“And will he go forthwith and take it, or does he expect 
to recover it by legal proceedings?” 

“ I think he and Will intend to go and take it without 
ceremony; and whoever has it will be lucky if he don’t get 
a thrashing.” 

Philip retired, and Tony “ closed ” for the night. 

Next day, while John and Will were absent on their ad- 
venture, which is described in the preceding chapter, every- 
thing was quiet in the village. When the evening came, and 
supper was over at the village tavern, Philip wandered forth, 
and again cautiously visited the rendezvous, where he found 
Sam and Joe “keeping house,” and learned that Bill and 
those affectionate brothers, the “ Busters,” had started for 


THE CAPTIVE OUTLAW. 


93 


the New Market and Brownsville road, for the purpose of 
waylaying and robbing the traveler. 

When he returned to the village, quite a number of pci- 
sons were assembled at Tony’s, awaiting the return of Duffey 
and his friend, in some anxiety to learn the result of their 
adventure ; for it had become known, in the course of the 
day, that the young men had gone to Waynesburg to recover 
the stolen horse, that the unscrupulous Job Welles was the 
man with wdiom they had to deal, and some fears were felt 
for their safety. It waa well known that the notorious Job 
and his “ crowd ” entertained no friendly feelings for the 
young men of Weston ; and that should John and Will be 
recognized wdiile there, their lives would scarcely be safe. 
Nearly all the young men of the village, and half a dozen 
from the surrounding country (among them George Roland), 
were collected in Tony’s bar-room. Philip joined them for a 
little while, but soon took a light and retired to his room. 
He had but closed the dooi behind him when he heard a 
shout in the street, and ’a commotion in the bar-room below, 
as of all rushing to the door. Going to his window, and 
looking down upon the street, he saw two men ride up, w^hom 
he had no difficulty in recognizing as John Duffey and Will 
Hempstead. But it must be confessed that he was rather 
induced to start back in dismay, as he perceived, by the light 
of a lantern which Tony carried out and hung up by the’ 
door, that one of the brave boys held as a prisoner the burly 
form of his lieutenant, Bill Hardin, who was the very gen- 
tleman they had captured on rescuing the traveler. He had 
entirely recovered his consciousness, and w^as now able to 
curse and swear in a style that did him great credit as a 
thorough ruffian. He was held firmly upon the back of the 
horse by the strong arms of Will, who sat behind him ; hi^ 
hands were bound together with a bridle-rein, and there was 
a delicious contusion near his temple, where something 
shaped very like the butt of a wffiip had struck him* 

Whom have you there ?” asked several. 


94 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


“ A rascal, whom we caught attempting, with severa: 
others, to rob and murder a traveler at the cross-roads, five 
miles from here.” 

“ It’s a lie !” said Bill. “ I’m a traveler myself, and — ’* 

“ Then why did you fire at us when we rode up?’* 

“ I did n’t; it was — ” 

Do n’t lie ; you know you did.** 

** No, by — ” 

** No words,” interrupted several voices from the crowd ! 

Hang him 1 He’s, no doubt, one of the robbers who have 
been harassing the settlement for the last two years.” 

“ And probably helped to murder Henry White,” sug- 
gested George Boland. 

Philip almost reeled to the floor as he heard this. He 
trembled in every limb, the perspiration started from every 
pore, and he scarcely knew whether his heart was about to 
stand still for ever, or spring from his throat. He chanced 
to have a flask of brandy in his room, and from that he took 
a hearty drink, which soon served to restore his nerves to 
comparative quiet. Knowing that it would be expected of 
him to make his appearance, he left his room, locked his 
door, and went below, meditating on the probable conse- 
quences in case Bill should show any sign of recognition. 

“ What’s the matter?” he inquired of Tony, whom he met 
in the bar-room. 

“ The boys have returned with the horse, and brought with 
them a robber, whom they captured on the road.’* 

“ Ah ! who ? How — ” 

At this moment the clamor without rose to the highest 
pitch. 

“ Kill the rascal, if he don’t tell !” shouted one. 

Hang him right up, the scoundrel ! No doubt he is the 
murderer himself !” cried another, excitedly. 

‘‘ I tell ye I don’t know nothin’ about no sich murder!*' 
protested Bill, now really terrified, I never know’d no bw h 


THE CAPTIVE OUTLAW. 


95 


a man as Heiiry White ! I don’t know where he lived ! I 
never heer’d o* him !” 

“The lying rascal!” “Make him tell, or kill him!’* 
“Shoot him!” “Knock him on the head!” “Hang him 
up to the sign-post!” were the exclamations of the excited 
crowd ; and if ever Bill’s life was in danger it was then. 

“ Haint I got no right to no trial ?” he said, piteously. 

“ No ! no ! Poor Henry White, whom you or some of your 
cursed gang murdered, had no trial, and he had done no 
wrong. No ! You cut him right off, without warning, and 
even hid his body from his heart-broken friends. Away with 
the villain ! To the sign-post with him ! A halter I A 
halter !” 

Philip was now standing in the doorway surveying the 
terrible scene, upon which the light of the lantern dimly 
shone. It made his heart quail. He saw Bill struggling 
desperately, but hopelessly, in the bands of several of the 
maddened crowd — his face ashy pale, his eyes starting, his 
lips covered with white froth, the blood trickling from his 
wound, his clothes torn to shreds and covered with dirt, hia 
hat gone, his hair disordered, and, withal, a look of such 
mortal terror upon his coarse face that it almost chilled the 
blood in his heart to look upon him. 

One of the mob now appeared, carrying a “clothes-line” 
in his hand, for obvious purposes, and he proceeded to form, 
at one end, a scientific slip-noose. 

“ Who ’ll climb up and put this rope over the top of the 
sign-post?” he asked. 

“Mercy!” gasped Bill, now completely overpowered and 
thoroughly terrified. “Mercy! Spare me! Oh spare me!” 
and he fell upon his knees in the most agonizing supplication. 

There was a moment of hesitation. 

“ Will you tell us the truth then asked several. 

“Yes! yes! I swear I will ! by all — ” 

^ Don’t add perjury to your other crimes,” said one. 


96 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


“ You 'd better do wbat you never did before — say your 
prayers.” 

“But I aint a murderer! indeed I aint? I have stole, 
but — ” 

“ Then you are one of the robbers who have been preying 
upon us so long 1 Tell us where to find the rest of your 
blackguard associates, or you die!” 

“ They aint no place. There was two fellers with me, but 
I s'pose they ’re run away to Pittsburg, where we come from. 
I'm tellin’ the truth, gentlemen, upon my soul I am,” said 
Bill, with more eloquence and energy of voice than he had 
ever before brought into play. 

“ Boys,” spoke George Roland, at this moment, “let us 
keep the fellow till to-morrow, and, in the meantime, notify 
the civil authorities. They may be able to elicit more infor- 
mation from him in regard to the rest of the robbers. If we 
hang him now, as he no doubt deserves, without getting any 
further disclosures from him as to his companions, we are no 
nea.rer rid of the annoyance than before. At least, give him 
till to-morrow to tell what I am pretty sure he know's.” 

“ What will we do with him? Where can we keep him V 
was asked. 

“ You can put him in one of my empty rooms for to-night,” 
said Tony, “ and set a watch over him, to see that he does not 
escape.” 

“My friends,” said Philip Kirke, addressing the mob for 
the first time, “ I think the advice is good, and you would do 
well to act upon it. In executing the fellow now, although 
he may deserve it at the hands of the law, we have his blood 
on our heads to carry through our lives. Moreover, he may 
not be guilty of anything further than robbery. Once in the 
hands of the authorities, he will not be likely to escape jus- 
tice ; and they understand better than we how to extort 
information from him concerning his companions, who infest 
this neighborhood. Thus wm may be enabled at last to break 
up their den and capture them all,” 


THE CAPTIVE OUTLAW. 


or 


The excitement of the mob had slightly abated by this 
time, and there was a moment of silence and hesitation. 

Phil is right, I think, boys,” said Tony, addressing the 
crowd. “ By following your impulses, while excited as you 
are now, you run great risk of committing a blunder, of which 
you may repent when it is too late. You had better shut him 
up for to-night with a guard over him.” 

. “ Put the matter to vote,” suggested one. 

“Ay, that’s the way to decide it,” agreed several. 

“Very well, heie goes,” said one, who was most clamorous 
for Bill’s immediate execution. “ /.ll those in favor of hang- 
ing this sneaking, cowardly villain right off, will please 
express their views to that effect by holding their hats above 
their heads — and let’s see a cloud of ’em.” 

A number of hats arose above the heads of the crowd, like 
dai’k demons coming from the regions below, to carry the 
terror-stricken robber away. The acting president tiien 
•lowly counted the votes : 

One, two, three, four, five” — every word pierced like a 
dagger to the wretched man’s heart — “six, se\eu, eight”^ 
oh, how many more ! — “ nine, ten — eleven I” 

No more. A moment of silence. 

“ That will do.” 

Eleven of the crowd had voted that the man should die. 

“ Those in favor of locking the rascal up till morning will 
•ignify their wishes in the same manner.” 

Again a number of hats arose before Bill’s swimming 
vision. He could hear the sound of a voice counting the 
votes in favor of granting him a respite ; but his heart flut- 
tered, his brain throbbed so, that he could not tell one word 
from another, until, as the voice ceased, he heard the word 
“ fourteen,” and he fell to the ground in a swoon. 

“He’s fainted,” said one. 

“ Throw a bucketful o’ water over his face/' suggested 
another. 

a 


98 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


“ Pour a quart o’ whisky down his throat,’* was the mild 
Buggestion of a third. 

“Tony,’' said Philip, ‘^give the fellow some brandy; that 
will bring him to.” 

Brandy was applied, and Bill soon opened his eyes, and 
expressed a desire to learn what part of the globe he at that 
time had the honor to occupy. He was informed that he was 
in Weston, and that the citizens of that place had just de- 
cided, ly a vote of fourteen against eleven, not to hang him 
till next day. 

He was then conducted — still trembling from the excite- 
ment and terror occasioned by the scenes through which he 
had passed — to a room on the second floor of Tony’s two- 
Btory house. The door was locked upon him, and a watch- 
man posted in the passage, to be relieved in an hour or two 
by another. One was also posted beneath the window of the 
room in which the culprit was confined. George Roland took 
the first watch beneath the window, and Philip very kindly (?) 
consented to watch for the first hour by the room-door, iyid 
at once took his position there. As no one felt like sleeping 
on so important an occasion, the crowd, except the two senti- 
nels, re-assembled in the bar-rocm, and did a little for the 
cause of intemperance. 

After the lapse of twenty minutes, Philip executed a ^ 
Bcarcely-audible rap on the prisoner’s door ; after which he 
placed his lips to the key-hole, and, in a soft whisper, called 
out — 

“ Bill !” 

There was no reply. All was quiet. He w^as beginning 
to think the prisoner had fallen asleep, or that he bad 
swooned again, when he heard a slight scratch upon the 
door. It was evidently produced by William’s finger-nails, 
he having noiselessly approached the door. 

“Bill,” called out Philip, again. 

“ Who is there ?” came from within. 

** The Cvap. Courage, Bill ; but caution. I’m on watch 


THE CAPTIVE OUTLAW. 


99 


now. I’ll be relieved in an hour. Then I’ll go straight U 
the cave, and bring the boys to your rescue. Do n’t fall 
asleep. Watch constantly for them. They will approach 
and knock down the guard under your window. Then jump 
out and run for it. Do you understand ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then no more. It is not safe to talk. But depend on 
me, and remember what you are to do.” 

** I will.” 

And all was quiet again. 

It was after twelve o’clock when Philip was relieved from 
his post. No time was to be lost. He immediately joined 
the crowd in the bar-room, and soon after slipped away, con- 
fident that his absence would not be observed. Once clear 
of the village, he sped away, as fast as feet could carry him. 
He was, of course, forced to slacken his pace in some degree 
long ere he reached the cave ; but, altogether, he made excel- 
lent time, arHving at his destination in a little more than an 
hour ,.and a quarter, which, considering that a mile of hia 
route lay through dark and pathless woods, was a physical 
feat that in a better cause .would have done him credit. 

He found Sam, Joe, and the two brothers wide awake, and 
very fearful lest Bill had fallen into the hands of the autho- 
rities, and to save himself from punishment, revealea their 
place of rendezvous. Philip, in the fewest possible words, 
explained their worthy comrade’s situation, and described the 
manner in which he was held in durance. Then he tola them 
that they must all immediately go to the village, well armed, 
creep stealthily up, knock down the sentinel beneath the win- 
dow, and that, when Bill should jump down and run lor it» 
they must, if necessary, cover his retreat, as he was probably 
weak from his wounds. He urged, however, that the rescue 
should be conducted without noise, and without violence, 
save in the case of the watchman, who must needs be knocked 
senseless. 

The four culprits accompanied Philip to within a few hun* 


100 


THE WHITE EOCKS. 


dred yards of the vHlage, where .he left them, with instruc- 
tions to come up in a quarter of an hour, stating that, of 
course, they could expect no assistance from him. He then 
entered the quiet village, and approached the tavern, where 
he discovered, to his satisfaction, that the crowd and the 
excitement were as great as when he left, and that all had 
been indulging pretty freely in Tony’s “old rye.” He was 
soon among them, and it was very clear that he had not 
been missed. It was now about four o’clock, and another 
hour would bring the early light'of day. 

By and by Philip invited all to take a drink at his ex- 
pense, which they did with pleasure. Several “ treats ” fol- 
lowed, and the time passed even merrily away. 

All were busy discussing the question as to how to dispose 
of the prisoner when the morning should come ; and as all 
were more or less excited by drink, there was a clear ma- 
jority in favor of bringing him forth, extorting from him, by 
threats of lynching, all the information possible, and then 
of lynching him after all. Thus an hour went by, and 
Philip began to feel sure that his men had either done 
their work well, or had failed to attempt it. 

The early gray of morning, mingled with a thick fog from 
the river, was just beginning to thrust aside the dark cur- 
tains of that eventful night, wdien the young farmer, v/ho 
had, more than an hour before, taken his post as watchman 
beneath the window, came staggering into the bar-room, to 
the astonishment of all, pale, trembling, and covered with 
blood and dust. 

“What’s the matter?” exclaimed all in a breath, springing 
to their feet. 

The young man sank into a chair, and, speaking with some 
difficulty, replied : 

“ I was knocked down by some one — I do n’t know how 
long ago, as I have been insensible — and I fear that rascal 
has escaped. Go, quick and see 1” 


IBA TATE. 101 

Some of the crowd rushed up stairs, while others hurried 
out to where the guard had been assaulted. 

The sentinel at the door of the captive’s room was still at 
his post, and confident that all was right. The key was 
brought up, the door was opened, and, by the early light of 
the morning, the self-appointed administrators of justice per- 
ceived, to their chagrin, that — their pisoner had escaped^ 


CHAPTER IX. 

IRA TATB. 

Golden October I How beautiful the forests are now! 
The leaves have just turned yellow at Jack Frost’s earliest 
touch ; and, as ever and anon a fitful breeze gently stirs the 
branches, the faded leaves descend in showers, rustling more 
merrily than ever, still proud of the honor of having clothed 
the kingly forest with its past summer’s glory. It is pleasant 
to stroll through the woods — to clamber over the mountain 
rocks or the decaying prostrate trees — now veiled in clouds 
of falling leaves, now treading deep among the crisp ones 
already fallen — to see the nimble squirrel, just in its glory, 
running up and down the tall trees, or hopping about among 
the bushes in quest of hickory-nuts — occasionally stopping 
suddenly, . and standing half-erect, to listen to some forest 
sound that has reached its quick ear. 

A month has passed away since the night on which the 
captured robber escaped from Weston. Since then no tidings 
have been heard of him at the village ; all search has proved 
futile; theft has been progressing as before; the unknown 
robbers have not been seen, but their presence has been felt, 
and everything is going on as usuaL 


102 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


We have nothing to do with the village to-day. We must 
turn away from the Monongahela, that smoothly as ever fol- 
lows its winding way among the picturesque hills, on it? 
everlasting journey to the ocean — always going, always ar- 
riving, but never there. We go toward the mountain, where 
heaps of moss-grown rocks and endless forests of trees can be 
seen towering among the clouds, overlooking the many cleared 
farms and extensive woodlands of the lower country. 

We take the mountain road at the village, and on our way 
we pass the wonted rural scenes of autumn. We see the 
farmer’s boy in the orchard, gathering the solid apples for 
winter use ; we see the cider press surrounded by the farmer, 
his sons, and a neighbor or two, busily pressing off the juice 
of the earlier fruit of the orchard ; we see the farmer, with 
his hired help, in the faded cornfield, “cutting up” the tall 
stalks, “ topping ” or “blading” for fodder, or husking the 
ears “from the stalk,” and throwing them in heaps at conve- 
nient intervals along the rows, to be gathered up and hauled 
to the barn or corn-crib ; as we pass the big log-barn on the 
right or left, we hear the steady knock, knock, knock of the 
flail upon the thrashing-floor ; occasionally we see a group of 
boys gathering chestnuts or hickory-nuts, one of their number 
perched among the branches of a tall tree, striking energeti- 
cally about him with a pole, causing the nuts to descend in 
showers to the ground, where the others gather^ them up and 
put them in baskets. 

On we go, passing these varied scenes one after another, 
till we stand by the mountain. Here let us stop ; we have 
reached the last farm-house. A well-cultivated farm, of 
several hundred acres, lies in a fertile valley at the foot of 
the mountain. It is the property of Ira Tate, Mary White’s 
singular old uncle. The farm-house, surrounded by the 
usual stable, barn, corn-crib, etc., stands a little way from 
the road. It is a large, old-fashioned, two-story log building. 
The exterior is rough and unattractive, and does not speak 
very eloquently of the architect; but the interior is nevt and 


till TAT® . iO^ 

clean from the cellar to the garret, and speaks highly of the 
occupants. 

Ira is at work in tke barn to-day. The thrashing- floor is 
nearly covered with even rows of wheat-sheaves, and the 
busy flail, in the hands of the irritable man, is knocking and 
pounding the bearded heads, making the grains and chafl‘ fly 
at every stroke. Let us enter; we have not se^.n that re- 
markable man before. 

There stands the quick-tempered and impulsive Ira Tate, a 
man of some five-and-fifty years. He possesses a large and 
muscular frame ; his head is very round ; his hair is as stiff 
as the beards of the wheat he is thrashing, its color is a 
savage iron-gray, and it grows down to within just one inch 
of his eyebrows; his eyes, which are of a dark gray, are 
rather small, but always wide open ; his nose is a short one, 
and rather of the pug persuasion; his mouth is small, and 
the lips of the average thickness; his chin, smooth-shaven 
like the rest of his ash-colored face, is a perfect model of a 
round chin, neither protruding nor retreating. He is dressed 
as farmers usually are while about their customary labors. 
His trowsers of domestic material have a patch, neatly exe- 
cuted, on each knee; his old black wool hat, his linsey 
warmus and jacket, are thrown off, and the sleeves of his red 
flannel shirt rolled up to the elbows, displaying a pair of 
huge arms, to which the muscles cling in great knots and 
bunches. 

While he is working away right lustily, the form of a man 
appears in the wide doorway of the barn. Ira arrests the 
downward stroke of the flail midway, and looks up. The 
intruder is an entire stranger to him ; he has never seen him 
before, that is clear. But we, reader, are quite familiar with 
him ; it is Philip Kirke. 

“ Good morning,** says Philip, politely. “ Mr. Tate, I 
presume?*’ 

“That’s my name,** is, the brief reply; and Ira stands 
itaring at the stranger, as though he expects him in the next 


104 


int WHI'TE tOCKB. 


moment to say something insulting or provoting, that he 
may rush upon him and hurl him from the barn. 

Philip is civil, however, and intends to remain so while in 
the presence of this man ; for he has not forgotten the graphic 
account of his singular disposition, which he heard from T^ny 
Baily several months ago. 

“ My name is Kirte,” he says, after a pause ; “ I deal in 
grain and cattle now and then; you have probably heard of 
me.” 

“ Oh, yes ; I’m glad to see you. I’ve heard my niece 
speak of you — Mary, you know — Henry White’s daughter.” 

“I know her quite well,” replies Philip. ‘-'I am glad she 
has not forgotten me. I have frequently visited her father’s 
house previous to his strange disappearance, and was always 
treated with great kindness. I hope Miss Mary is quite 
well.” 

“ Yes, quite well now; but not so lively as she used to be, 
poor girl. In time, though, I hope she will be herself 
again.” 

“ I am sure she will,” says Philip. “ The young and 
sprightly are more apt to forget their sorrows through time, 
than to die of them. It is very foolish to repine for what is 
past. Our departed friends, could they communicate with 
us, would never ask us to be so passionate in our remem- 
brance of them as to wear our lives away by useless fretting. 
Mary is a girl of good sense, however, and I am sure she will 
not allow sorrow for a past bereavement to take away all 
future enjoyment of life.” 

“ That’s a fact,” agrees Ira ; and he plies his flail again. 

“ This is nice, lively work,” remarks Philip. “ I’ll try mi/ 
hand at it.” And by way of making himself quite friendJy 
with Mary’s uncle, and agreeable beyond all precedent, he 
iakes up an extra pair of flails, and goes to work opposite the 
farmer. 

For half a minute there is a rapid succession of thumps on 
the thrashing-floor, that must sound quite stirring to any one 


!lii tAtS. 


i05 


without, if there he any one listening. But presently Philip’s 
flail, which he handles just a little clumsily, comes in contact 
with that of Ira in mid-air, causing it to whirl round and 
strike the latter a neat blow, above the eye. Ira drops his 
flail like one shot, claps his hand convulsively to the painful 
bruise, and falls to rubbing his forehead with fierce energy, 
writhing his face into the most alarming contortions ex- 
pressive of pain, and dancing about the floor in a grotesque 
manner, that induces his companion to suppose that the blow 
has surely knocked kis mind out of joint. 

While Philip is saying, “ Excuse me!” “Beg pardon!** 
“ I’m sorry !” and a number of like things, Ira suddenly 
makes a spring for a wooden half-bushel measure on which 
his eye chances to rest, catches it up, to the alarm of Philip, 
who fears he is about to knock his head oflf with it, and 
dashes it out the barn-door with all his strength. It strikes 
against the fence, and falls uninjured to the ground, where- 
upon the enraged Ira rushes forth, much to the amusement 
cf Philip, and falls to kicking the poor piece of agricultural 
furniture most frantically. Having sent it spinning like a 
foot-ball all over the barn-yard, he presently returns to the 
interior, his anger much appeased, and takes a seat on a sack 
of grain. 

It is true the poor, harmless half-bushel was not the cause 
of his pain, but then it sat there looking so provokingly com- 
placent while a fellow-creature was suffering such agony, that 
it was too much to bear. We must say this much for Ira, 
even at the risk of being accused of partiality as a chronicler. 

“I hope I did n’t hurt you much,” says Philip, with sym- 
pathy delineated in the very depths of his voice; and he 
cannot help feeling how awful his situation would be should 
he give utterance to that laugh which he feels rising in his 
throat. 

“Oh, none of any account,” replies Ira; and he arises, 
walks slowly from the barn, presently returns with the pooT 


l06 '^UE WHITE feOCES. 

abused and outraged half-bushel under his arm, and restores 
it to its place. 

“I am very awkward with the flail,” remarks Philip, in a 
tone of self-depreciation, by way of further apology ; “ not 
being accustomed to handling it.” 

“ Oh, that’s nothing,” Ira replies, taking up his flail and 
resuming his work. The pain is all over now. 

Philip remains in the barn conversing with his new ac- 
quaintance, until the dinner hour arrives, which is announced 
by several unearthly blasts on a tin horn. Ira is favorably 
impressed with the young man. Philip must not think of 
leaving till he has taken dinner, and seen Mary and his 
daughter. He has a daughter, he says, a little older than 
Mary. Mary’s aunt also makes her home with them, and 
the four constitute the family. His wife, dear good soul, 
died many years ago. There is a tear in the impulsive man’s 
eye as he tells this. Philip soothingly remarks that we must 
all meet with bereavements in this world, and that he, too, 
has lost friends ; which is probably consolation similar to that 
experienced by a certain old lady on an occasion of the loss, 
by death, of a favorite cow. “ Thank goodness,” said the 
old lady, actually clapping her hands at the soothing reflec- 
tion, “ Joneses lost one only last week I I’m not the only 
one, I guess 1” 

Ira and his new-found friend proceed to the house, which 
is a hundred yards distant. There Philip is greeted and 
welcomed by Mary and her aunt, and introduced to Matilda, 
Ira’s daughter, who certainly is “ a little older” than Mary 
in appearance, for one’s judgment would not suffer were he 
to pronounce her te^i years older. After dinner Ira returns 
to the barn, bidding his guest stay awhile with the young 
folks. Philip consents to remain an hour before returning to 
the village. The young ladies entertain him, while Aunt 
Eliza, who cares nothing for male society, attends to house- 
hold matters. 

“ Do you think this a wild place, Mr. Kirke?” asks Mary. 


l^A TAtfi. 


lot 


“ I pronoriijce it very picturesque,** is the reply. 

It is very lonely,” observes Matilda. “ You, who are 
accustomed to the stir of city life, may find it too dull.’* 

“ Not at all,” replies Philip. “ I like the solitude of these 
quiet places. It is in delightful contrast with the noise of the 
city.” A pause. “ Yes,” he resumes, insinuatingly, “ a quiet 
place by the mountain, adorned by the presence of those 1 
esteem, I would not exchange for a ‘city mansion. I would 
far rather take a ramble among the golden woods to-day, 
accompanied by a guileless and innocent country girl, than 
to parade the streets of New York or Philadelphia at the 
side of some reigning belle, full of shallow pride and aris- 
tocracy.” 

“ You are sentimental,” remarks Mary. 

“ Not at all. I have lived both in the country and in the 
city; and I have had opportunity to make comparisons. 
What I say is merely prompted by contemplations of what I 
have seen.” 

‘*You men are such flatterers,” remarks Matilda. “No 
doubt you laugh at us plain country people when you find 
yourself in the city, surrounded by beauty and fashion.” 

“ No, on honor,” Philip replies. “ Beauty I see in the 
country — a fresher, purer beauty than is to be found in the 
city. As for fashion, what is it but a mere shallow invention 
of the idle brain ! If true beauty and real worth can be 
found anywhere, it is among the unsophisticated people of 
the country.” 

Well spoken, Philip ! Even the devil may speak the truth 
when it answers his purpose better than a lie. It is clear 
that are not one of the “ unsc^isticated.” No, you 
carry with you malignant odors fresh from the vice-haunted 
city — flattery, treachery, deceit. 

There is a pause in the conversation. 

“How long since you returned to the village?” Mary at 
length asks. “You have been absent.” 

“ I returned two months ago,” is the reply. 


108 


THE WHITE BOOKS. 


“ I thouglit you would have visited us ere this. You must 
not forget your old friends.” 

“Well, in truth,” Philip responds, “I have often thought 
of coming to see you, but I knew you had met with a bereave- 
ment, and I almost dreaded that I should find you sad, pale, 
and emaciated. I learned that you had been quite ill, and I 
am agreeably surprised to see you looking so well as you do.” 

“ I ivas quite ill,” Mary remarks, “ after the terrible sor- 
row that visited us last May. I am now just myself again. 
I have given my father up for dead, and have become in a 
manner reconciled to my loss. There is no doubt in my 
mind that he was murdered; were he still alive, in what- 
ever situation, we should surely have heard from him ere 
this. I once thought I could never rally under such a blow, 
but my wonted health has returned of its own accord, and I 
am determined to keep my spirits from sinking, if possible, as 
a duty, if nothing more.” 

“ It is a duty which you owe to yourself and your friends. 
Such a determination on your part is a mark of sound, Chris- 
tian-like sense/’ 

“I have always told her so,” puts in Matilda. 

“ Eight,” says Philip, patronizingly. “ Now, Mary, if you 
will pardon my familiarity — ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ — I would just say to you, make yourself as happy a*- 
possible. Do not withhold yourself from society. Do not 
live such a secluded life. Your dear father would not 
wish you to make such a sacrifice, when there is nothing to 
be gained by it. The winter is approaching, and I presume 
we will have sleighill^ excursions and dances; you must 
promise me to attend. Your return to the gay circle of your 
9ld acquaintances will be hailed by them with delight.” 

“Yes, I am sure I will be welcome, and I think I will take 
your advice — to some extent, at least.” 

Thus the conversation goes on. Philip is much pleased 


itA TATE. 106 

With Mary, and Mary is much pleased with him. So is 
Matilda, who thinks him a very charming young fellow. 

At length Philip is about to take his leave. 

“ You will not make this your last visit,” says Mary. 

“ Certainly you will come again,” urges Matilda. 

“Oh, you’ll see me again,” replies Philip. “I expect to 
remain about Weston for a year or two, perhaps, and in that 
time we will meet often. I am afraid you will grow tired 
of me.” 

“No fear of that,” says Mary, laughing. “We will always 
be glad to see you. Come whenever you can. There are 
several points of interest on the mountain not far from here. 
You have never been at the White Eocks?” 

“ No.” 

“ Nor at Delany’s Cave ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Nor at the Sand Springs?” 

“ Nc.” 

“ Those are all places of interest on the mountains. The 
White Eocks especially are worth seeing. They consist of 
several ledges of rock, of a peculiarly whitish color, rising up 
on the face of the mountain, to a perpendicular height of a 
hundred feet. In the summer it is a great place of resort for 
picnic parties. They usually go up on horseback. Delany’s 
Cave, which is a mile or so from the White Rocks, is an ex- 
tensi V e cavern descending into the mountains. It has never 
been entirely explored. Adventurous persons have pene- 
trated more than two miles without arriving at any termina- 
tion of the rough dark passage. A long way in the sound 
of rushing waters can be heard, but no large stream has 
ever been discovered. Two men entered some years ago, 
declaring that they would pierce to its uttermost depths ere 
^hey should return. Nothing has since been heard of them, 
and the most reasonable conclusion is, that they went in a 
long distance, lost their way among the innumerable passages 
which traverse the main one, and perished. The Sand 


lio 


ME WHltfi nOCtt 


Springs is tlie name given to a picturesque spot on the mouTi- 
tain, some miles from here, where there are many springs 
of the purest water, flowing from a very sandy soil. These 
places are all pleasant and interesting. During the past 
summer but one party visited the mountain, and that was in 
June, while I was yet ill. But during some seasons we have 
half-a-dozen pleasant excursions to these places. Next sum- 
mer, if you are here, I hope you will join us in our rambles/* 

“ That I will,” says Philip. “ I am anxious to see the 
places you describe, and I will surely take occasion to visit 
them next summer, if not before.” 

If you will come up one day soon, before the cold weather 
comes,” suggests Mary, Cousin Tilly and I will accompany 
you in a walk to the White Rocks. The distance is but two 
miles, and directly up the side of the mountain. The white 
surface of the rocks can be seen from almost any little emi- 
nence between here and Western I dare say you have 
observed the white spot on the side of the mountain ?” 

“ I certainly have, but was not aware what it was. I will 
be glad to come up soon, and accompany you in -a visit to the 
place.’* 

“ Please do so. Tilly and I will be at leisure to conduct 
you thither on any day you may come.” 

“ I will come, then, by the first of November.” 

*‘Very well* Choose a clear day, and you will also be/ 
treated to a delightful view of the surrounding country in its 
autumnal dress.” 

“ I will. Good-by.” 

“ Good-by, and don’t forget,” says Mary. 

“Good-by,” says Matilda. 

“ Good-by,” cries Aunt Eliza, who has left her work for a 
moment, for the purpose of uttering the farewell word. 

And Philip, waving his hat in gallant adieu, walks toward 
the barn to take leave of Ira. 

He finds that irascible gentleman in a good humor, and after 
iome conversation relating to business, he departs for Weston, 


THIS CLIFF. 


•• “f 
XX 


1 


CHAPTEE X. 

THE CLIFF. 

Laubel Hill, a tributary range of the Alleghany Mo\in- 
tains, rises in Western Virginia, takes its course a few degrees 
east of north, and terminates in Fayette county, Pennsylva- 
nia. It is composed of innumerable peaks and ridges, which 
vary in altitude from two thousand to three thousand feet. 
In Fayette county, Pennsylvania, but a few miles from the 
Virginia line, there are two tall ridges running at right angles 
with the main one, and •separated by a deep gorge, whicli, to 
look down into it from above, seems to penetrate the very 
bowels of the earth. That lying toward the south is termed 
the Cave Eidge,” because it contains the immense cavern 
known as “ Delany’s Cave that lying north of the deep 
valley is called the ** Eock Eidge,” because of the romantic 
cliffs and ledges that cling to its abrupt side, to which the 
appellation of “ White Eocks” is given. 

On the south side of this great hill, and consequently facing 
the Cave Eidge, at the height of fifteen hundred feet above 
the lower country, the White Eocks are located. The 
principal ledge is about one hundred feet high and two hun- 
dred yards in length. It rises rather abruptly at the extre- 
mity toward the settlement, and ascends at a slight angle as 
it i^tretches itself along the face of the hill toward the deep 
.{a-9iintains, where it breaks up into a series of smaller, less 
tegular and less perpendicular ledges. But it is only of the 
in?in cliff that we will endeavor to give a brief description. 

The summit of this huge rock is a smooth plateau, gently 
inclining back from the abrupt precipice, till, within thirty 
or forty paces, it intersects the rise of the mountain, wdiich is 


112 


THE WHITE HOCKS. 


here <^uite steep, and thickly overgrown with bushes and 
small trees that grow to the very margin of the table rock. 
The latter, although it may be very properly termed a con- 
tiguous ledge, is here and there cloven asunder by crevices 
several feet wide ; and one must be careful in stepping across 
them, lest he suddenly find himself precipitated many feet 
below, into some narrow den, infested by snakes. There are 
also smaller fissures, nearly full of earth, in which a few wan- 
looki/ig saplings have managed to grow to the height of two 
or three feet. 

Near the western extremity of the clifif there is one crevice 
about twm feet wide, in which is a rough, irregular and diflS- 
cult stairway, placed there by the hand of Nature. By 
means of this rude piece of architecture an active person 
may descend, though not without danger, to the base of tke 
cliff. As we arrive at the bottom we emerge from a crevice 
in the lofty wall, and stand at the base of the White Rocks. 
Near this point we find a narrow cave in the solid rock, which 
we can penetrate to the distance of tw'o hundred feet, when 
it grows so contracted that we find ourselves wedged in be- 
tween two damp, dark walls, and further progress is impossi- 
ble. Before turning about to retrace our steps, we look up- 
>¥ard, and descry a faint ray of light, far, far above, which 
struggles through some stray crevice. Now let us return to 
the broad day. 

Near the mouth of the cave, in the midst of a great heap 
of huge rocks, piled up by the same Hand that formed the 
ledge itself, a little vein of the purest water bubbles from the 
sand, ever shielded from the rays of the sun by overhanging 
rocks, and forms a delightful spring in a small cavity. As 
we glance upward, from near this point, to the top of the 
towering cliff, we feel a very slight uneasiness lest it should 
lose its hold upon the side of the steep hill, tumble over and 
crush us, and -go rolling and leaping to the bottom of the 
great wild ravine below. We even fancy, at times, that we 
Bee it move, or tremble slightly j but that is because the sum- 


THE CLIFF. 


1.13 


mit is, for a moment, described against a fleecy cloud that is 
floating upon the blue sky far above. When the cloud has 
passed over, the tall, firm rock is once more grave and still. 
Let us return to the top of the cliff. 

To describe the wild pictures that surround this elevated 
point is a task from which the pen modestly shrinks. We 
stand upon the bare rock, and turn toward the west. On our 
right the vision is obstructed by the abrupt rise of the rough, 
wood-covered hill, buf on the left we look down into that 
yawning abyss, and across against the mighty face of . the 
Cave Eidge, which seems to lift its head to the clouds. 
Fro^ii here it appears almost perpendicular, and it is covered, 
from base to summit, with rocks, trees and vines. It is all 
wild, picturesque and lonely ; and from the green fields where 
it rises in the west, to the tangled,’ intricate hills of the moun- 
tains toward the east, wdiere it hides itself from view’’ — from 
the depths of the shady valley by which it rears itself aloft, 
to its rugged crest across which the clouds can scarcely drag 
their way — we see written but the one great name — Nature! 

But before us lies the grandest picture of all. As we gaze 
out from between the two great mountain ridges upon the 
beautiful landscape ; when we see the woodlands — the green 
fields, where the sheep and cattle are feeding — the rolling 
hills, which apparently rise one above another, as though 
formed for some mighty amphitheater — w^hat words so pow- 
erful as to convey a fair description of the picture ? What 
language so exalted, sc sublime, as to eulogize it? None! 
The pen is motionless before it ; the tongue is silent ; the 
voice is dumb ; the eye gleams with pleasure and glows with 
admiration as it takes in the scene ; the mind, in its contem- 
plation, silently soars on high, and instinctively adores the 
great Creator ; the vices, the pleasures, the passions of the 
world are forgotten, and we feel as though we would dash 
aside this garb of clay, and fly to Him whose hand hath 
wrought these glorious works I 


114 


THE WHITE BOCKS. 


The month of October has passed away with a weeh of 
blustering weather, and the days of the “ Indian summer '* 
are come. It is a bright, clear day, save that a thin vapor 
of the softest blue is mingled with the atmosphere, as is usual 
during these pleasant days. The trees are nearly bare now, 
and almost everywhere the ground is strewn with the dead 
leaves which have been torn from the forests and blown 
hither and thither by the early autumn winds. 

We must visit the White Eocks to-day. 

We leave the main road to take its way through the valley 
that pierces the mountain, while we ascend the steep ridge on 
the left by a bridle-path that picks its upward way ampng 
the ragged gray rocks, the wild bushes, and the deep-green 
pines. 

Winding about, now to the right, now to the left, now 
clambering over the trunk of a fallen tree which obstructs 
the way, or some ill-shapen rock that has become detached 
from its place and rolled into the path, we at last find our- 
selves many hundred feet above the valley below, where the 
air is light and a little difficult to breathe. By and by the 
path, which is all the way closely hemmed in by bushes on 
either side, turns abruptly to the right, and descends rapidly 
toward the gorge. The White Eocks are not far distant 
now. We follow the path in its downward course, and in 
a few minutes emerge from the thicket, and step forth upon 
the cliff. A moment ago ' ’’e could not see half a dozen paces 
around us ; now, at a single glance, we can take in hundreds 
of square miles. 

To-day all the landscape lying between this point and the 
river is clearly visible ; but as we gaze far away beyond the 
Monongahela, the hills grow dim in the distance, and are 
finally lost to view in the hazy atmosphere of Indian summer. 
The river itself is not visible, for its bed lies deep in the 
earth. Neither can the village of Weston be seen, for it ifl 
\Mst behind that hill on which the church stands. 

The breeze is very quiet; it scar^'ely rostles tlie crisp 


THE CLIFF. 


115 


leaves that lie in great beds upon the ground ; it does not 
stir the green branches of the pine or cedar; nor does it 
move the crooked limbs and bare twigs of the chestnut or the 
oak. The slanting rays of the sun fall quite pleasantly upon 
the mountain, and upon the brown fields of the country 
spread out below. 

“ And this is the place ?” says Philip Kirke, as accompa- 
nied by Mary White and her cousin, he emerges from the 
thick bushes, and stands upon the giant cliff. 

** Yes, beneath your feet are the White Eocks,**is the reply. 

A romantic place, certainly,” he remarks. 

Do not go too near the brink,” cautions Mary, as Philip 
walks slowly in that direction, “ for you can imagine the con- 
sequences of a fall from such a height.” 

“Has any one ever fallen over?” he asks. 

“ Not within my recollection,” Mary replies. ** It is said 
that the savages, who inhabited this part of the country many 
years ago, used to dispose of the prisoners they captured in 
war with other tribes by dashing them over this precipice. 
The White Kocks were used as a place of execution for many 
years, and, could they speak, might relate such tales of horror 
as the world has never heard. Tradition says that a thou- 
sand unhappy creatures, taken in battle by the victorious 
warriors, were hurled over in one day ; and that a noted 
chief, who was among them, was reserved till the last, to be 
executed by the chief of the victorious party in person. 
When his time came, the captive chief walked firmly to the 
verge of the precipice, and, ere he could be hurled over, 
seized his enemy, dragged him after, and both fell headlong 
from the dizzy height.” 

“ A singular tradition,” Philip remarks. 

“ Yes, very, ^n these enlightened days it is almost diiE- 
cult to realize that such barbarism was ever practiced.” 

“It is. Yet there is no doubt the story. is virtually true, 
if not in point of fact. Jn the history of civilized nations we 
read of similar deeds of cruelty and depravity. But let 


116 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


descend to the base of the cliff. I believe you said there 
was a way to get down ?’* 

** Yes, there are two ways.** 

** Well, let us take the easiest.’* 

** I would rather not, for the easiest way Is to jump over. 
The other, however, and the way we had better go, is through 
yonder crevice. There is a rough stairway, which we may 
descend with a little care and some exertion.” 

“ Very well. Come on.” » 

When they have descended, they stand for awhile survey- 
ing the face of the cliff. 

“ Ah!” Philip exclaims, as some object near the top arresta 
his eye, “ what letters are those away up there ?” 

** They are G. E.,” Mary returns — “ George Eoland*a 
initials.’* 

“ How came they there?” he asks, with evident concern. 

George cut them there himself some years ago. He wat 
always a reckless fellow, and he did that at the risk of his 
life.” 

“ How did he manage it ? for the letters appear to be 
little lower than a man could reach from the top.” 

“ Yes, the letters are ten feet from the top. One day, while 
in the village, George made a bet with that noisy fellow, Ned 
Stanton — you know him — ” 

“ Yes, I know Ned.” 

“ — that the next time a picnic party should visit this pkc® 
he would cut his initials on the side of the cliff, ten feet below 
the brink. Accordingly, on the next excursion, he canied 
with him a hammer and chisel, and about thirty feet of smaJl 
rope. He kept them concealed till we arrived upon the rock, 
when he deliberately drew the rope from beneath his coat, 
tied one end to a small sapling that grew in a crevice near 
the edge, and the other around his body, and over he we.;:*!, 
before we had the least idea of his intentions, descended ic 
the right point, and, with hammer and chisel, which he car- 
van^. His pocket, won his bet.” 


THE CLIFF. 


117 


** A daring fellow,** Philip remarks. 

“ Too much so,*’ is Mary’s reply. 

The trio visit the cave in the rock, and other interesting 
points about the base of the cliff, and at last return to the 
summit. 

“ What a delightful view I** Philip exclaims, in admiration 
of the out-stretched country. 

“ No better can be obtained from any point on the mouV 
tain,” Mary replies. 

“Don’t go so near, you might fall over!** exclaims Tilly, 
although they are ten or twelve feet from the precipice. She 
IS evidently an advocate of the keep-on-the-safe-side principle. 

“No danger,” Philip and Mary reply, in concert; and 
they draw still nearer the brink, just to scare Tilly. 

“ I can see quite as well here,” she remarks, taking her 
position upon a large stone of several tons weight, which lies 
a dozen paces from the brink. 

“ It was here,” observes Mary, “ that George Poland low- 
ered himself over the edge of the rock to put his reckless 
scheme into execution. There,” pointing to a little snag that 
protrudes from a crevice, “ is all that remains of the sapling 
to v/liich he attached the end of the rope before descending.” 

“ Ah !” is the brief comment of Philip, who regrets that it 
did not pull up by the roots just as the adventurous fellow 
was executing the tail of the “ P.” 

There is a pause. 

"'What kind of flower is that?” he asks, abruptly. 

** Where ?” 

“ There — growing right on the edge of the rock,” Jbe re- 
jl'.es, pointing to a little flower that can just be seen hanging 
by a thin stem over the brink. 

“ It is a tender-looking flower,” Mary replies. “ How sin- 
gular ! It would look odd enough in such a place even in 
the spring — it is doubly curious now.” 

“ I’ll go and get it,” says Philip ; and he steps to the spot, 
stoops cautiously, and plucks the flower. 


118 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


But as he pulls it from its hold in the mossy rock, it slips 
from his fingers and disappears from view. 

“ Too bad 1” he exclaims, in a tone of vexation. “ I have 
half a mind to jump over after it.’* 

“ Do n’t do that',' Mary responds, playfully, ** or Tilly and 
I will jump over after you'' 

“ For your sakes I wont, then,” Philip replies, and he re- 
turns to his place near Mary; having very injudiciously, we 
think, concluded not to throw himself over after the truant 
flower. 

“ It is strange,” Mary murmurs, ** about that flower. The 
more I think'of it the more inexplicable it becomes. It is 
past my comprehension how it came in such a place at such 
A time.” 

“ I am not versed in botany, and can offer no explanation,” 
Philip rejoins. But I know one thing — it wont take me long 
to go down and get it ; and I will do so, just to see what it 
looks like.” And waiting for no remonstrance, he speeds 
away to the crevice, and descends the uneven stairs. 

** Beware!” 

Such is the word that greets Mary’s ears as she is carefully 
drawing near the precipice to look over. The voice sounds 
strange, and she turns quickly. 

** Did you speak, Tilly ?” she asks. 

“No.” 

“ Did you hear any one speak ?” 

“No.” 

There is a rustling among the bushes near the path, and 
Ae girls momentarily expect to see some one step forth. Bui 
no one appears; and when Philip returns he finds them .arr'.- 
«stly regarding the bushes. 

“ What is the matter?” he asks. 

“Nothing; only we thought we heard some ore, but we 
^ust have been mistaken. Did you get the flower f” 

“ Could n’t find it,” is the reply. 

“Why, where can it have gone?” 




119 


** t could discover no shelf in the side of the cliff, on which 
it might have lodged while descending, and I conclude that, 
as it was quite light, it must have beeri carried away among 
the bushes by the breeze.” 

“ That must be it,” Mary concurs. 

“Oh dear!” says Tilly, impatiently, “let us go. Don’t 
spend so much time about an insignificant little flower.” 

“It is time to go,” Mary observes. 

“ Yes,” says Philip, “for I must return to the village to- 
night.” 

They walk slowly to the path, take a parting glance at the 
bare rocks, the deep abyss, and the tall ridge beyond, dis- 
appear among the bushes, and are soon descending the moun- 
tain. Mary is rather quiet and thoughtful as they go down 
the lonely path. When asked what is the matter, she re- 
plies, “ Nothing,” and continues to ponder on that strange 
word she heard at the White Rocks — tliat warning word — 
“ Beware 1” 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE WINTER. 

The first winter embraced in our narrative passed away 
without any event of much importance. It was an exceed- 
ingly cold winter, the snow lying upon the ground to the 
depth of twenty inches for more than two months. During 
most of this time the sky remained clear, which rendered the 
nights most biting cold. Nor could the power of the sun be 
felt in the atmosphere during the day, so sharp was the wind, 
and the surface of the earth so frost-bound. 

Every spring, and almost every stream, was sealed up by 


120 


THE WHITE ROCES. 


tlie remorseless breath of winter. The ice upon the river 
grew to such a thickness, that it was difficult to determine 
whether or not there was real]}^- any running water beneath 
it at all. Some thought that the whole bed of the river 
had become one solid mass of ice — that the water had chilled 
and frozen from the surface to the pebbly bottom. If such 
were the case, it was agreed by all that the fish, and other 
creatures of the lower element, would labor under the most 
unprecedented inconvenience. 

On occasions of sleighing-jiarties, which even the kingly 
J. Frost, in all his might and power, could not deter the 
young folks from concocting and carrying out, the horses 
which drew the sleds and sleighs were literally arrayed in a 
coat of frost, cut out, made up, and fitted with most aston- 
ishing despatch by the keen air, their steaming breath fur- 
nishing the material ; while the beards and coat collars of the 
young men, and the shawls, bonnets, and veils of the young 
ladies, were as speedily encrusted with the same wfintery 
covering. Many cattle and domestic fowls perished with 
cold in the course of the winter, but no human being-, of the 
settlement vras so unfortunQ,te. There were no needy people 
around- Weston, although there were many v/ho were far 
from being wealthy. Their houses were all good enough to 
shut out the winter winds, and while everything without was 
pierced and chilled with the cold, the blazing bituminous 
coal that wms piled upon the grate made everything comfort- 
able and cheerful within. A brighter, happier picture cannot 
be imagined than that of the farmer and his family sitting 
around their glowing coal ffire on a winter evening. The 
scene is the same now as it was then. There is no other 
light than that of the blazing fire, and it is almost as bright 
as gas-light. The farmer himself is seated at one side of the 
fireplace, reading the “Life of Washington,” the “History 
of the Revolution,” or some simple, though useful work, 
while the busy wife sits opposite, knitting or sewing. In 
front of the fire are the boys and girls, occupied with slate 


THE WINTER. 


121 


and pencil, arithmetic, grammar, and other school commodi- 
ties. If the girls are beyond the age of school-girls, they are 
probably occupied like the mother; or if the boys are begin- 
ning to be young men, they are perhaps mending a whip, a 
bridle, a “jockey-stick,” or engaged in reading, like the 
father. Nine o’clock is their “ bed- time,” and when that 
hcur comes they invariably retire. 

The reader will pardon this wandering from the story, as 
it is the object of the author to give, as he goes along, a brief 
outline of rural life in Western Pennsylvania; and as he 
spent a matter of eighteen years in that region, beginning 
with his first birth-day, he thinks it would be nothing to 
boast of if he were to succeed in giving a pretty accurate 
idea of manners and customs there. 

It would be fair to presume that the operations of the 
mysterious robbers were necessarily suspended during the 
severe winter, and so they were ; which was sufficient evi- 
dence that they were but mortal, even aside from the fact 
that Will Hempstead and John Duffey had captured one of 
them and brought him to the village (from which, however, 
he had escaped), during the preceding September. William 
Hardin and his worthy comrades adhered with wonderful 
tenacity to their cave, which in the coldest weather was 
perfectly comfortable. They had sufficient provisions, the 
fruits of their previous summer’s labors, to place them beyond 
want for the whole winter, and even longer, and in eating, 
drinking, and sleeping they whiled the hours away. They 
had plenty of firewood piled up in their capacious abode, but 
water they could only obtain by melting snow ; and it be- 
f>:mes a fact vmrthy of remark, that, when the spring came, 
and the snow began to succumb to the rays of the sun and 
the early rains, that steep hill-side, which did n’t hold much 
snow at the best, was the first spot for many miles round to 
peep forth from its white cover. 

It was supposed by the people of the settlement that the 
robbers had left the vicinity on account of tke cold, and it 


122 


THE WHITE EOCH^. 


was earnestly hoped they would never return ; but they Were 
not aware how comfortably these robbers were situated, and 
where, nor did they dream that their honored chief was 
making himself comfortable at the village tavern. 

Philip Kirke was quite successful in his financial enter- 
prises during the autumn, visiting Pittsburg twice with boat- 
loads of grain, and realizing large profits both times. He 
was almost induced to believe that he could do better by 
cutting loose from his friends at the cave, and, pursuing his 
new avocation on his own account exclusively, and he even 
wished that he could do so with safety ; but he felt that he 
was “ in for it,” and that were he to forsake Bill and the 
others he could never be at ease in the neighborhood, through 
constant fear of being their next victim in the way of busi- 
ness, or of being betrayed by them to the people. To leave 
Weston would not promote the object he had in view, namely, 
to marry Miss White, and thereby wound the heart of his 
hated rival. After the cold weather set in he did not once 
visit the cave, nor w^as he expected to by his companions, 
until the spring approached and the winter began to relax. 
He remained about the village during the winter, and visited 
all the social parties in the vicinity, at only one of which he 
met Mary White. The distance at which she now lived from 
the village rendered it impracticable for her to attend parties 
in that vicinity very often during the winter season. 

George Poland did not hold himself aloof from the society 
of the young. He still loved Mary White, but now that it 
was clear she could never be his, he determined to bear his 
disappointment with a good grace ; and he behaved with such 
apparent gayety, that those who had frequently gossiped of 
his having been “cut out” by Phil Kirke, and of his having 
probably received the “mitten” at the hands of Mary, now 
began to think that he had never cared especially for her. 
Philip Kirke, however, saw, with the keen eyes of exultant 
envy, that George, cfic? love Mary, and that her probable 
rejection of him still rankled in his bosom; and, bighlj 




m 


elated by the fact, he determined to woo, win, and marry 
the young farmer’s lost sweetheart, and render his misery 
complete. The rivala frequently met, and although there 
was no cordiality between them, there was politeness of 
speech and demeanor that was very distant from altercation. 

George, by way of hiding his real feelings, began to pay 
bis devoirs to a little blue-eyed angel of the name of Kitty 
Hempstead (a cousin of Will), who was just emerging from 
the “ short dresses’* of halcyon girlhood into the stately, 
^nkle-concealing robes of womanhood. Kitty was a pretty 
girl, and although George did not love her as he did Mary 
White, he liked her very much, and preferred her society to 
chat of any other girl in the settlement — Mary excepted. 
Her fun-loving, mischievous eyes, her silvery voice, and 
merry laugh did much to dispel the sadness and gloom from 
his heart. 

Will Hdmpstead was not decidedly a “ lady’s man,” al- 
though where youth and beauty assembled he was generally 
present. • His companion, if any one, was a bashful sister of 
John Duffey, and as neither did much talking, they got on 
eight smoothly together, and certainly with reasonable peace 
md quiet. 

As for John, it was confidently asserted that he was never 
-een on two different occasions in company with the same 
^irl. He was regarded as a fickle fellow, and one who must 
nevitably, at last — terrible thought! — fill a bachelor’s grave. 
U was clear to the young folks that he would never be likely 
‘lO extend his attention to any one wfithin dreaming distance 
of marriage; and but for his merry disposition and witty 
words, which always made his society pleasant, any marriage- 
able lassie whose lot it was to be his companion for a day at 
a picnic, would have regarded it as so much time wasted. 

Ned Stanton, who was beginning to forget the churchyard 
affair, entered society again, and led quite a gay life during 
the winter. He met Miss Matilda at one party in the course 
of the winter, and at once proceeded to manifest decided 


124 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


eymptoms of net D inHng her quite the oldest or legist 
attractive female in the world. He spent a little time in her 
company, by way of beginning to carry out his promise to 
bis friend Dick, and he subsequently asserted that no man 
ever made such a sacrifice for a friend. He advanced but 
one step at that time toward the consummation. The point 
gained was merely an intimation from Matilda, in reply to a 
pathetic and earnest inquiry on his part, that certainly he 
was quite excusable for thoughtlessly taking the “libe/by ” of 
addressing her as Tilly.” When he solemnly vowed that he 
would not again be so rude, she assured him it was not the 
slightest harm, begged him not to think it, and above all 
things to remember that they were only country folks, and 
could not be expected to preserve inviolate a code of polite- 
ness by which the people of great cities chose to be governed. 

The result of this little colloquial incident was to convince 
the delighted “ Tilly” that the dear Hed of her heart enter- 
tained for her, in that manly bosom of his, feelings of the 
most profound respect, if nothing more; and when -she came 
to remember that love and respect usually go together, and 
that she had seen the one clearly exhibited, she felt, in her 
trembling heart, that the other might not be far off. Oh, 
that brave fellow ! who had never yet shown fear in the face 
of man ! to be conquered by her, a feeble, tender maiden I 
To fall at her feet, and request to be permitted to yield up 
the ghost for her dear sake I To spring up, an accepted 
protector, take her in his strong arms, and shed tears of joy I 
In fact — oh, dear ! 

Ah, cruel Ned ! Have you the heart to deceive this gentle, 
confiding creature of but thirty short summers, and break her 
heart, even to avenge a friend ? If you have, the great moral 
question of total depravity” is set at rest forever. Perhaps 
she did flirt just a little with your quiet friend Dick ; perhaps 
she did encourage him in his attentions, and finally give him 
the “ mitten but that was ten years ago, and ought to be 
forgotten now. Eelent, Nedl Eelentl But nol he haa 


THE WINTEB. 


12S 


pledged his word, which he considers better than a rich 
man’s oath any day, that he will mete out to her, grain for 
grain, the very measure of heartache which she ruthlessly 
caused poor Dick. Ah, Dick I Honest friend I Quiet, civil 
fellow 1 You shall be avenged ! 

Has the reader ever seen a freshet on one of the Western 
rivers? Or has he stood near when, after a long, oold, and 
severe winter, the ice is “ brea^ng up ?” As the water rises, 
and the ice is torn from the banks to float away, first crack- 
ing and splitting across from shore to shore, then breaking 
into cakes of various sizes, then moving slowly down the 
stream, pushing, gorging, crowding, crashing, piling up and 
tumbling over, the noise can be heard for miles. The sound 
produced by the cracking and breaking of the thick ice is 
like the mingling of musketry and artillery”, and on a still 
night it rolls continually forth and reverberates among the 
surrounding hills. The author has heard the MonongaheV* 
“breaking up,’’ and has seen the high muddy waters of the 
freshet on more than one spring. The spectacle is always 
grand and interesting in proportion to the amount of snow 
which has lain on the mountains during the winter, which is 
generally melted away by a protracted rain, and comes 
rushing down, soon filling the bed of the river, and often 
overflowing the banks, carrying away mills, houses, and other 
property. The thicker the ice, too, which usually goes ofi* 
with the high water, the louder the sound when it breaks up, 
and the more fiercely it rushes on its way. Chickens, geese, 
dogs, pigs, and other domestic creatures, which have been 
suddenly swept into the current by the rising water, have 
been frequently seen floating slowly down the river on large 
cakes of ice, looking around in wonder at the new scenery 
which is constantly unfolded to them as they move along. 

After the severe winter of which we have briefly spoken, 
’’here was a freshet on the Monongahela, and a “ breaking 
up” of ice, such as had not been seen for many years. Early 
\n the month of March the weather began to moderate* a 


126 


Tfiij WsiTi itocKS. 


heavy rain sei in, the snow speedily melted aw.ay, and the 
very clouds seemed to come rolling down the mountain. 
The ice in the river relaxed its cold grasp on the hanks, and 
began to crack, and split, and break, and crash, with such a 
commotion as might attend a hurricane on it^ rush through 
the tall forest. Higher and higher rose the muddy waters, 
till the banks in many places were submerged. Nor did they 
stop then; they rose till many of the inhabitants of Weston 
discovered that it would be a perfectly practicable matter to 
float a skifl* in at their second-story windows. All the boats 
of the ferry, as well as those belonging to private citizens, 
were carefully looked after, that the high water and heavy 
ice might not carry them away, an d^ they became quite useful 
in removing goods from the deluged houses. It looked odd 
to see a flat-boat or skiff coming coolly up street, and stopping 
at somebody s window to be loaded with beds, chairs, tables, 
and the like. Much property that could not be removed in 
time was damaged or ruined by the water. None of th< 
houses were carried away, as the floes’ did not rise higher 
than the second story, but when the waters had subsi ’ed, 
and the escaped occupants returned to view their domiciles, 
they were rather astonished at the amount of mud and sand 
that had collected upon the floors and walls, and in the 
cellars. The houses were so changed in appearance that one 
family proceeded to re-occupy the wrong building, and only 
discovered their mistake when they observed that the chim- 
ney stood at the wrong end. Even then they were fain to 
suggest that some mad eddy of the waters had whirled the 
house around ; but on being reminded that such a change in 
the position of the house would have thrown the front door 
in the rear, within a few feet of the well-filled well, they 
were effectually convinced of their mistake. 

Many incidents have been related of that remarkabi« 
freshet. Some of them are amusing, but the most are sad 
and fraught with woe. There was one family that lived in a 
small house on the river shore, about ten miles below Weston. 


THE WINTEB. 


12 ? 


of whom a sad story has been told. Their house stood upon 
an eminence near the river, to whose summit the water had 
never before been known to rise, and which descended on all 
sides, so that it had often been surrounded by water during 
former freshets. One night, on the occasion in question, they 
retired as usual, aware that the water was rising, but little 
imagining that it could ascend to their cottage. Before 
morning, however, they were aroused from their sleep, and 
horrified beyond measure by hearing the water pouring in at 
the windows, and the heavy cakes of ice thumping against 
the walls. T-.-en the agonizing thought rushed upon them, 
that deep wat:^:" surrounded them on all sides, and that should 
the rise continue there was no hope for them. An honest 
laborer, his wife, a boy of* eight years, and a little infant 
composed the family. Their house was only one story high, 
but there was a kind of loft or garret next to the roof. 
Springing from bed, and finding themselves knee-deep in 
water, they at once ascended to this loft by means of a ladder 
that stood in the corner, the mother clasping her babe to her 
bosom, and the father taking his boy in his arms. Probably 
the water would not have reached them there, but they had 
no sooner gained what for the time appeared a safe retreat, 
than their humble dwelling began to totter, and in another 
minute it was swept away, the wretched parents with their 
little children, were cast out in the black night, amid the 
foaming waters, and the cruel, cold ice crushed them down, 
passed remorselessly over, and went surging on as though 
ten thousand such deeds would not appease its seeming rage. 

Many like scenes might be portrayed to illustrate the 
ravages of that flood, but we must pass them by, and proceed 
with events that have a more direct bearing upon our story. 


128 


TEE WHITE KOCKa. 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE FOETUNE-TELLEB, 

May has come again. It is so warm and pleasant, too; 
the fields and trees are so beautiful and green ; the birds are 
singing so .merrily in the thick foliage, and the sheep and 
young lambs are sporting so gayly in the pastures, that one 
can scarcely realize that a cold* chilling winter, with its 
heavy snows, is barely gone. King Winter has departed 
now, and not a single trace of his rough footsteps is seen any- 
where, for no sooner had his bleak winds and blindincr storms 
rolled away than the young buds peeped timidly forth, as 
though half doubting that he had really gone, and the tender 
blades of grass began to thrust themselves from the ground; 
and now all Nature has revived from the shock she so lately 
felt, and is as blithe and happy as though winter had never 
stripped her of her green robes. 

It is nine o’clock, the pleasantest hour of this beautiful May 
morning. The sun has risen far above the mountain, and 
the dew has everywhere disappeared from the ‘leaves and the 
grass. Ira Tate with a neighbor, who is helping him to-day, 
is in the field planting corn. He is in excellent humor, as 
who wouldn’t be this delightful morning? and has not killed 
a chicken or a dog, nor broken a hoe or anything of the sor; 
to-day. 

At the farm-house the morning’s work is done, and Aunt 
Eliza, Mary, and Tilly have not much to do. 

“ It’s such a lovely day, Tilly,” observes Mary, tl a‘: I 
should like to take a walk somewhere.” 

“ So should I,” Tilly replies. 

“ Suppose we walk up the mountain,” Mary suggests. 


THE FORTUNE-TELLER. 


129 


am willing, if Aunt Eliza” — Tilly so calls lier — “ will 
get tlie dinner.” 

“ Oh, slie will, I know, and gladly, for she frequently says 
‘.hat help in such small matters is only in the way. I’ll ask 
her. I say. Aunty !” 

“'Well?” responds Aunty, from the depths of the kitchen. 

“ Can you get dinner without our help to-day?” 

“ Why do you ask ? Are you both sick ?” 

“ Oh, no. On the contrary, we are so very well that we 
feel like taking a walk up the mountain this lovely morn- 
ing.” 

“ I suppose I can get along without you. But do nT stay 
too long, or you’ll have m^ uneasy.” 

“ Oh, we’ll be back about dinner-time. So, w^'re off, 
Tilly. Get your bonnet; I have mine already.” 

Tilly gets her bonnet, and away the cousins go, tripping 
down the. path, out at the gate, and along the road till they 
reach the mountain path, into which they turn and begin 
their upward walk. 

“ Oh, it’s so pleasant I” Tilly exclaims, with an earnest 
contraction of the eyebrows, which seems to imply that it if 
disagreeably so. 

“ Very,” is her cousin’s brief reply. 

They do not travel quite so fast now, for the mountain 
grows steeper and steeper, and the path more and more rugged. 

“ What if we should meet old Molly Pry, and we by our- 
selves?” Tilly abruptly suggests, half alarmed at the very 
thought. 

“Why, if we were to .meet her,” returns Mary, with a 
slight inclination to witticism, “ we would not be our- 
selves.'' 

“ We would have bad company, then,” rejoins Tilly, 

which is worse than none.” 

“Why, you don’t fear that old woman, do you ?” 

“Don’t I? 'Well, if I were to meet her up here in the 

9 


130 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


mountains, and I alone, I should faint — I know I should,” 
Tilly confidently affirms. 

‘‘Why so ? She was never known to harm any one.’* 

“ No, not directly ; but if she predicts evil of any one It U 
sure to come to pass; and that is what I should fear — tUiAi 
she might say some horrid things of my future. Three men 
once, of the names of Butler, Dougherty and Flanigan, of 
whom you have no doubt heard — ” 

“ Yes, I have heard of them." 

“ Well, they were up in the mountain after chestnuts, and 
they met old Molly, and provoked her in some way, and sht 
cursed them, and predicted that they would all be hung 
before a year. She came pretty near the truth, if not quite. 
Butler was hung for killing and robbing a drover before sii 
months — the only man ever hung in Fayette county ; Dough* 
erty shot a man over in Greene county, and was hung by a 
mob before the year was up, and Flanigan, about the same 
time, murdered his wife with an ax, and ran away to escape 
justice. It is not known positively that Molly’s prediction 
was verified in his case, though it has been rumored that he 
fled to Ohio, and shortly after, in a crazy fit, brought on by 
drink, hung himself in a barn." 

“ I have heard of those men, and of their deeds, but I was 
not aware that old Molly warned them of their fate." 

“ She had, though ; for they stopped at our house on their 
way home and took dinner, and they laughingly told father 
of their adventure with the old woman, how they had teased 
and taunted her to hear her swear, and how she had prophe- 
sied that they should all be hung. before chestnuts should be 
ripe again. It was ten years ago, and I was quite young 
then, but I /-emember it distinctly." 

We wonder whether Tilly means quite a young girl or 
quite a young woman. 

“ Have you ever seen the old woman ?" asks Mary. 

“I have never seen her, though I am sure I should knrw 
her by the description I have 1 ad of her. They say she iff 


THE FORTUNE-TELLER. 13i 

the frightfulest and wretchedest looking little old woman that 
lives on the mountain.” 

“ Now I would just like to meet her,” says Mary. “ I really 
hope we may. If we do, I’ll get her to tell our fortunes. Do 
you think she would ?” 

“Certainly. I have heard that she tells everyone’s for- 
tune whom she meets, without even being asked. If they 
do n’t want her to, and go away from her, she will yell it 
after them.” 

I'll not run away if we meet her. I think it would be 
fun to have our fortunes told. Think of her telling us all 
about our future husbands — who they are, what they ’re like, 
how old they are, and — ” 

“ Oh, you know your8 already,” Tilly interrupts. 

* Do I ?” Mary rejbins. “ Now who should it be ? I appeal 
to you for information.” 

“ Oh, you know. Who should it be but Mr. Kirke I” 

•“ I do n’t know that,” Mary returns, with a blush. “ I 
think, however, you may safely say who yours is to be. If 
you can’t, /can.” 

“ No you can’t, for I do n’t intend to marry. I have had 
many an opportunity, but I have always been determined not 
to tie myself to any one. I like to be my own mistress — to 
go where and when I please, stay as long as I please, and 
come back when I please. Talk of your married bliss ! It’s 
nonsense ! Think of a surly brute of a husband to wait on, 

and half a dozen ch Oh, it isn’t worth talking of. Give 

me the bliss of single life ! A single life for me !” 

“ Then, if such are your ideas, beware. I know a certain 
fellow who will have your heart before you know it.” 

“ Who is it?” 

“ Mr. Ned Stanton.” 

It is now Tilly’s turn to blush — and she does. 

“ Do you suppose for a moment that I care for him?” she 
asks, faintly. 

“ I should n’t be surprised.” 


THE WHITE BOCKS. 


2 


** I never thouglit of such a thing,” replies Tilly ; her voice, 
however, betraying the fact that she has thought of such a 
thing, and is thinking of it now — with pleasure. 

“ Then I suppose you were only flirting with him that 
tvening at the party,” Mary suggests. 

“ AnS I suppose you were only flirting with Philip Kirke,” 
Tilly returns, evasively. 

“Well, I am not in the habit of flirting, but-^Dear me I 
I’m so tired 1 let us rest.” 

And with this abrupt change in the topic of conversation, 
they seat themselves upon a rock. 

“We must be half way to the White Rocks,” suggests 
Tilly. 

“ Yes, and may as well go all the way.” 

am willing. Oh, the day is so pleasant,” says Tilly, 
probably forgetting that she has already imparted that piece 
of information to Mary. 

They are soon sufiiciently recovered from their slight 
fatigue to resume their way up the mountain ; which they do, 
and in half an hour arrive at the White Rocks. 

“ The view will be beautiful to-day,” observes Mary. 

“ Splendid !” replies Tilly, with some feeling. 

They are soon upon the high cliif, and approaching the 
precipice. But they are suddenly startled by beholding the 
withered, shrunken form of an old woman sitting upon the 
very verge of the cliff, where George Roland once went over 
to carve his initials, her feet actually dangling over the 
precipice. 

“ Who is that?” whispers Mary, trembling with a strange 
dread which she has never felt before. 

“ It must be Molly Pry,” returns Tilly, in a whisper. 

So void of fear — so reckless of her life?” 

** Yes, her very nature. She do n’t see us. Let us away !” 

They are about to turn and flee, when the old woman looks 
quietly around and sees them, but expre^sses no surprise. 
They hesitate. She slowly rises to hex feet and confront* 


THE FORTUNE-TELLER 


13 & 


them. She stands fearlessly on the very brink of the 
precipice. 

It is Molly Pry, the well-known fortune-teller of the moun- 
tain, who has, on many occasions, given proof of a strange 
power to tell of past events, and foretell of those to come. 
Her appearance, as she stands there, is miserable, squalid 
and wretched, not to say frightful. She is about five feet 
high and very thin — almost a skeleton. Her apparel con- 
sists of nothing but rags from head to foot — miserable, color- 
less, dirty rags. The coarse black hair hangs in tangled 
masses from her head, which is entirely void of any artificial 
covering. Her cheeks are hollow and sunken, and her small 
black eyes are set so deep in her head, and they glance out 
in such a disagreeable way, that one feels- as uneasy in front 
of them as though they were the muzzles of loaded pistols. 

“What are ye afeerd of?” she asks, in a shrill voice, level- 
ing her gaze on Mary. “ Ye can’t fall over the rock while 
I’m a standin’ on this spot, though ye may when I’m not hur 
to watch ye.” 

“Excuse ns, my good woman,” Mary tremblingly replies; 
“ but we are only a little surprised at seeing any one here.” 

“Well, ye needn’t fear me. I never was knowed to hurt 
nobody what didn’t do me no harm. My name’s Molly 
Pry ; d’ye ever hear o’ me ?” 

“ I think I have,” Mary replies. “ You can tell fortunes, 
vin’t you?” 

“Yes, an* mfs-fortune, too.” 

“Oh, I hope you would n’t tell me any misfortunes.*' 

“ I’ll tell ye the truth ; I’ll tell ye what’s past and what’s 
io come. Gi’ me yer hand;” and Molly advances, and takes 
Mary’s unresisting but trembling hand. 

Mary shudders. She would withdraw her hand from the 
bony grasp of the old hag, but she fears to ; she would avert 
her gaze from the piercing, half-hidden eyes that are bent or. 
her, but she cannot. 

“Ah,” begt-’' the old woman, “he was struck down in a 


134 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


dark wood for his gold, and he never saw ye again — died 
under the ground among the rocks, wavin’ his hand an* 
tryin’ to call to ye, his pale face covered with his own blood, 
and — ” 

Stop, for heaven's sake,” interrupts Mary, turning pale. 

“Why, what’s the matter?” 

Mary trembles, but does not reply. 

“ Ah, I’ve told ye the truth, have I ?” says the old beldam, 
“ Well, that’s of the past. I’ll tell o’ the future now.” 

“ Go on ; but do n’t tell me things like that.” 

“Well,” resumes the old hag, “I’ll tell of love; yes, love; 
plenty o’ love — for you, all for you — love, fun, happiness 
enjoyment, followed by — ’* 

“ By what?” Mary asks, as the old woman hesitates. 

“ Sickness, sadness, horror, murder, blood — yes, hlood — ” 

“ Oh, let me hear no more !” shudders Mary, now dropping 
the long hand, staggering back, and seating herself, pale and 
half fainting, upon the same rock upon which Tilly stood last 
fall. 

“ Now I’ll tell yowr’n,” says the old hag, turning coolly to 
Mary’s cousin. 

“ Oh, I’m afraid !” exclaims Tilly, starting back in alarm. 

“ Oh, there’s nothin’ so bad for you,” says the old woman, 
advancing and taking Tilly’s hand. “ Your father was n’t 
murdered, nor you ain’t to be dashed to pieces among the 
rocks. Your lover — ha ! you ’ve got a lover, so you have 
Yes, a lover. What a gallant fellow he is I How bravely 
he WOOS ! He kneels at your feet. Whatl Kejected? Hn 
springs up, rushes madly away, and — ” 

“ And what?” Tilly asks, breathlessly. 

“ Drowns himself.” 

Tilly screams. 

“ Oh, I do n’t want to hear any more. I feel so queer,’ 
she gasps. 

“Very well, then. I have no more to tell. Why, how 
pale ye both look 1 Do n’t be skeered. Ye must git used to 


•fflE EORTUNE-TELLER. 


m 


death an* murder. I am. Death’s nothin*. I die ofteru 
It’s onlv fun.” And going on in this wandering style, she 
again approaches Mary, who is still seated on the rock, 
“ Here,” she says, “ take this ; I found it on the brink there. 
It would ’a fell over if I had n’t been there.” And she 
hands Mary a little flower, exactly like the one that was seen 
growing on the brink of the precipice last autumn. 

Mary takes it nigchanically, shuddering more than ever, 

“Where did you get this?” she asks. 

“ Growin’ there,” replies the old woman, pointing to the 
brink of the precipice, where Mary had first seen her. “ Ah, 
he tried hard to dash it down upon the rocks below, but he 
couldn’t. Beware of him! He may yit! It is a tender 
plant, and in his rough grasp the blood would start from it 
and rouse the vengeance of the people there!” — waving her 
hand wildly toward the settlement — “ then more blood would 
flow ! Blood ! Blood ! Blood 1 Beware of him ! Beware !’* 
And the old creature turns and walks swiftly away. 

“ She do n’t know what she is talking about,” says Mary, 
as the old woman disappears among the bushes. 

“ I am sure she do n’t,” agrees Tilly. “ She must be crazy ; 
she talks like one in a delirium.” 

“ True. I shall pay no attention to what she has said. 
Dear me,” Mary goes on, now half laughing, “ she talks of 
nothing but murder, and — ” 

“ Drowning,” suggests Tilly. 

“Yes, and drowning. It would be ridiculojs to give a 
thought to what she has said. It is strange, about this 
flower, though,” says Mary, growing more grave. “ It seems 
to have sprung up just where we saw one last fall. Perhaps 
it is a kind that grows up here ; some kind of wild mountain 
flower. I’ll take it home. We should go soon.” 

“ I think it is time to go now. We have spent so much 
time with that woman, it must be after eleven o’clock.” 

“ Near twelve, I should say. I wonder when we will be 
here again?” 


THE WHIT^ HOCES, 


I suppose there will be a picnic party here before long. 
We’ll come to that, won’t we?” 

Ob, yes. It bas been nearly two years since I attended 
one. So, good-by. White Rocks, till we see you again. Fare- 
well, but not forever.** 


CHAPTER XIIL 

▲ PLOT. 

Olr friends at the cave felt some delicacy about opening 
the summer’s campaign. May had actually come, ay, and 
almost gone again, and beyond a few petty thefts, by way 
of replenishing their larder, they had done nothing, Whethei 
it was because Bill’s narrow escape of the previous autumn 
had rendered them timid, or that they had naturally grown 
dilatory during their winter’s idleness, is but a matter of 
conjecture. Probably no small share of their tardiness was 
owing to the depressing influence which Bill’s fearful adven- 
ture exercised upon them ; for they were well aware of the 
rough manner in which he was handled at the village, and 
the alarming want of commiseration with which he met there 
in his awful peril. 

That gentleman, for some vreeks after his adventure of the 
previous September, labored under the most serious indispo- 
sition, not without symptoms of brain fever, and on several 
occasions it required all the strength and ingenuity of his com- 
panions to prevent him from rushing from the cave and hurling 
himself over the rocky steep into the river. Once or twice, 
too, it taxed to the utmost their argumentative powers, to 
convince him that it was inexpedient to saw his head off with 
one of their fine saws ; but when, in his delirium, he imagined 


i 


137 


L uself* still struggling in tlie hands of the incensed villagers, 
aud screamed out in terror, “ Oh, do n’t hang me ! Do n’t 
kill me, and I’ll tell you all ! I’ll tell you all about the cave 
where we stay, and of the murder of Henry White!” they 
could not help congratulating themselves that they had res- 
cuod him in time, and that his ravings had not been heard 
outside the fraternity. 

Bill had now thoroughly recovered from his illness, and 
was as well as evt'’ physically, though certainly no better 
morally. About the "ast of May he and his companions 
were lounging idly about the mouth of the cave, concealed 
from the very sun himself by overhanging foliage, when the 
shrill notes of the tin whistle were heard in the little nook 
below. 

“Harkl What does that mean?” exclaimed one of the 
villains. 

Must be the captain,” Bill lazily replied. 

“ But how did he git away down there without passin* us?” 
tiwked Joe. 

“ Do n’t know, unless he missed his way an’ come down on 
t’other side.” 

“ He knows his way too well for that,” said one of the 
others. ** He alius comes from above, and he’s come it in 
the night, too.” 

“ Well, I’ll answer it,” said Bill ; “ git yer pistols, and 
we’ll go down and see how things is, any way.” 

While his four companions entered the cave. Bill put his 
whistle to his lips, and- “uttered a blast” which made that 
vicinity sound as though it were alive with whippoorwills. 
In reply several sharp notes again came from the nook 
below, echoing from side to side as they ascended. 

“Well, we’re ready,” said Sam, as they emerged from the 
cave, each with a pair of heavy pistols. 

“ Come on then,” said Bill, “ and if it’s any feller a trickin’ 
us, let him look out.” 

All now stealthily descended the steep declivity, and soon 


V 

138 white 

found tliemselves at tlie water’s edge and in tte presence ot 
Philip Kirke, who sat lazily in a small boat in the little 
harbor. 

“Why, vrhere d’ye come from?” asked Bill. 

“ From Weston,” was the reply. “It is a pleasant day, 
and I borrowed this boat an hour ago to take a row. Thinking 
the scenery fully as attractive below the village as above, I 
concluded to come in this direction, and pay you a nautical 
visit.” 

“ I’m glad ye did, for it’s thunderin’ dull in this neighbor- 
hood. Git out o’ yer craft an’ come up to the cave,” said 
Bilk 

“Oh, it isn’t worth while. Bill,” replied Kirke. “I can 
se^* you all here, and a dangerous appearance you present 
with your firearms. Besides, I feel lazy. Have you any- 
thing to drink?” 

“Yes, some derned good old rye, that came from some old 
feller’s still-house last week. Sam go up and bring down 
the jug; yer young and nimble.” 

Samuel proceeded to ascend to the cave, in whose dark 
recesses dwelt the jug in question. 

It may not be out of place to state here a fact of which 
many of our readers are probably not aware, namely, that 
half a century ago almost every farmer in that part of Penn- 
sylvania had a small distillery on his farm, in which he 
manufactured, mostly for his own use, rye whisky, apple 
brandy, etc. A still-house was as common on a farm at that 
time as a barn, and regarded as almost equally indispensable. 
That custom has entirely disappeared now, and where the 
little distillery once stood, only a heap of stones now remains 
to mark the spot. 

Sam returned in the course of five minutes, bearing in his 
hand the two-gallon jug. 

“ There,” said he, as he set i't down, “ it nearly cost me my 
neck to bring it down ; it’s chuck full.” 


A Plot. 13^ 

** Why did you not pour some into another vessel?** asked 
Philip. 

“ Darned if I ever thought of it till I got half-way down,* 
was the reply. 

** Did you bring anything to drink from ?** 

“ Yes, hurs som’in* *at’ll hold as much as any feller *11 drink 
at a swaller,** replied the illiterate Sam, producing a tin-cup 
whose capacity was a pint and a half, 

Philip took a drink, and was followed by Bill, Sam, Joe, 
and the “Busters,** after which the conversation was re- 
sumed. 

“ Have you any enterprise in view ?** asked Philip. 

“No, nothing,** was BilPs reply. “Business seems to be 
^uJl. Have you got anything on hand? Is anybody tra- 
voJin* these times with a pocket full, or anything o* thai; 

“ Why I know of one pretty good affair that might receive 
f ur attention with some advantage,** said Philip. 

“ What is it?’* 

“ If you will only come to the village — ** 

Bill started. 

“ Oh, there’s nothing to fear, if you will but: follow my 
directions. I know a man in Weston who has a thousand 
dollars or so, which can easily be got at with the aid of one 
of your fine bolt-saws, a dark lantern, and a bunch of keys. 
All these things you have in the cave?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, the man I allude to keeps a store in the village. 
I have learned that he is very careless with his money, keep- 
ing it in a mere wooden drawer under his counter, that is 
only secured at night with a common little lock. His theory 
is, as I have heard him express it, that the more careful one 
is of money the more apt he is to lose it. Now it would be 
a benefit to him and the world in general, if we were- to 
teach him a lesson which would clearly prove the fallacy of 
his reasoning. By the way, his name is Duffey, and is no 


140 


THE WHITE EOCK^. 


other than the venerable father of one of the young men who 
thwarted you last September in your attempt to relieve the 
New Market man of his lucre, and came near getting you 
hanged at the village.** 

“He is?** 

“ Yes, the very same. By relieving the father of a little 
cash you will in a manner repay the son for his interference, 
and recover, perhaps, what you lost that night. You will 
not incur the slightest risk. All you have to do is to come 
at about twelve o’clock in the night, for then there is not a 
soul awake in the whole village, and proceed quietly and 
cautiously.** 

“I’m in for it!** said Bill, with some enthusiasm, for the 
spirits he had taken were beginning to have an exhilarating 
effect upon his own. 

“ So am I,” said Sam. 

“ Me, too,” said Joe. 

“ And us, too,” said the two brothers, in concert. 

“ Three of you will be enough,” said Philip. “ The other 
two can remain at the cave. You, Bill, will be one of the 
party that goes on the expedition.” 

“Yes, indeed. Wouldn’t miss it.** 

“ Well, as the Busters went with you on the last affair of 
importance, I think Sam and Joe had better go this time.’* 

All signified their assent to this arrangement. 

“ Now,” resumed Philip, “ let me advise you how to pro- 
ceed. Come as near twelve o’clock as possible, any night 
you choose. I think to-night would be as suitable as any, 
for the weather promises to be fair, and it will be dark 
enough, and the moon will not be up till about three o’clock, 
and—** 

“ Let it be to-night, then,’* interrupted Bill. 

“ That’ll suit me,” said Sam. 

“ An’ me,” added Joe. 

“ Very well,” said Philip. “ You know where Tony Bailj • 
house is, Bill?” 


A ^LOT. 


141 


** Clio’s?” 

“ The tavern, you knovr, where — ’* 

“ I reckon I ort to, an’ I rather think I’ll never forgit it.** 

“"Well, Duffey’s store is nearly opposite; you will have no 
difficulty in finding it. As the door is both locked and 
barred at night, you will have to enter by one of the windows. 
I do not remember that there are any articles to obstruct you 
when once you get the shutter open. Take with you a saw 
that will cut iron, a dark-lantern, and a bunch of keys to open 
the drawer with. You can soon saw the head ofiT one of the 
bolts that hold the bar across the outside of the shutters. 
That done, all you have to do is to raise the sash and enter, 
with your keys and lantern. While you are within, Sam and 
Joe can watch outside, though it is scarcely necessary. You 
can easily find the drawer by the light oT your lantern; open 
it, and in a back apartment you will find the money. It is 
gold and silver, in bags that will hold about a pint each. I 
have often seen Duflfey go to this drawer to get change out. 
Be as noiseless as a cat when you are in the store, and you 
are perfectly safe. No one sleeps in the «tore-room, but the 
family all sleep in the same building. The proprietor him- 
self occupies a room immediately adjoining- and your friend, 
his son, reposes on the floor above. Now, I think I have 
told you all that is necessary, and I have no doubt you will 
succeed nicely.” 

“ You may bet your head we will.” 

*‘Yery well. To-night, then, is the time. As I cannot 
render you any assistance in the matter,” said Philip, with ^ 
sly wink, “ I will probably be asleep at the time, in common 
with the rest of the honest people. So, let us take another 
drink, and I’ll be off.” 

Again all had recourse to the jug, when the discreet Bill 
said : — 

“ Do n’t shove out yit, captain, till I go up a little way an 
»ee if the coast’s clear.” 

‘‘A good idea; I’ll wait,” returned Philip, 




Bill climbed up among the rocks to the height of seventy 
or eighty feet, and took a careful survey of the placid surface 
of the river as far as he could see up and down the stream, 

‘*It’s all safe,” he said, when he returned; “but when you 
move out I advise you to hug the shore a piece up, an’ do n’t 
shoot right out onto the river, for somebody might happen to 
be stuck away among the bushes on t’other side, axd seem' 
ye slidin’ out might set him a wonderin’ where ye come 
from.” 

“ I’ll be careful as to that,” replied Philip. “ But stop, 
I’m not off yet. I have another suggestion to make.” 

“ What is it?” asked Bill. 

“ Why, how would it do to go up in our boat to-nigh% in- 
stead of walking ?” 

“ I never thought o* that, I declare,” replied Bill, rather 
pleased with the idea. “ Now, I do n’t see why it would n't 
do.” 

“ I think it would be best,” said Philip. “ I advise you to 
go in the boat, but do n’t forget to muffle the oars. You can 
then row past the village and land above. Tie your boat 
where you can easily find it again, and thus you will a;'proach 
the village from the other side. Should an alarm be given, 
which is not likely, and should you find it necessary to make 
a hasty retreat, you could hurry to the boat and embark, 
thus deceiving your pursuers, should you have any, as to the 
direci'on in which you belong. That will be the best part 
of it. That cursed Roland and his crowd will then spend 
the next half-year in scouring the country for miles above 
the village. Once in the boat, push out into the stream, and 
the current will soon carry you right down past the village, 
while a lot of fools are breaking their necks running far up 
the river road in search of you. I merely mention all this 
to prepare you for any emergency, and not that I think it at 
all probable that you will be seen or disturbed to-night, 
Duffey will swear a little to-morrow vhen he comes into his 


A PLOT. 


14 ? 


itore, and finds himself not so rich by a thousand or so as 
when he went to bed.” 

“ Good 1 I think well go it on your plan. What d’ye 
say, fellers?” 

“ It’s bully, I think,” was Sam’s brief comment. 

“ The werry thing,” agreed Joe. 

“ Then,” said Bill, it’s settled, an’ if we do n’t have a grab 
at ole what-ye-call-em’s cash afore to-morrer mornin’ then 
you may consider as we ’re poor stuff.” 

“ Good-by then,” said Philip, “ and d© a’t forget the :lireo- 
tions I have given you.” 

“ Trust me for that. Good-by.” 

Philip shoved his boat from the snug little harbor, and was 
soon ascending the river. For at least a mile he kept very 
closp to the Fayette county shore, so that at times he was 
actually hid beneath the thick foliage that overhung the 
water at various points. Such caution on ins part was 
scarcely necessary, for the opposite shore was also high, 
rocky, wild, and covered with woods, and it was, therefore, 
most improbable that any one was lurking in a position to 
observe him. It has been most truly said : — 

•* The guilty conscience groundless terror brings— 

Gives fearful shape to harmless, lifeless things , 

Silence or sound regards with equal fright, 

Flees from the day, yet dreads the coming nigl*r-^ 

Trembles in darkness, while it dai^ not fece Uk 'igki * 


144 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

MAGGIE ROSS. 

At eleven o’clock that day Mr. Duffey, the village mer* 
cnant, little ireaming of the evil thcwt was concocting against 
him, was sitting quietly, half-lazily, in an old arm-chair in 
Uis store-room. There was not a customer in the store, in- 
deed he did not expect many at this time of year. The 
farmers, who were now busy -‘working” their corn for the 
drst time in the season, had ourchased their summer’s goodi 
^rlier in the spring. Times were consequently dull wit), 
tne village merchant, and would continue so until after 
Harvest. 

By and by it crossed Mr. Duffey ’s mind that he held a 
note for some sixty dollars on a man in New Market, which 
had come due on the first of the month. 

“ Strange,” he muttered, “ that Wilkins has not brought 
that money over yet. He has been very punctual heretofore. 
Something may be wrong. I have half a mind to pay him a 
visit and see about it. Men are not half so apt to travel a 
iozen miles to pay money as they are to receive it. I’ve 
discovered that in my little researches into human nature. 
Howeyer, Mr. Wilkins is good enough. Oh, dear,” Mr. 
Duffey yawned, rising slowly from his chair and stretching 
himself, “ I feel lazy to-day. Got the spring fever. Symp- 
toms unm'istakable. Times are dull to-day. Farmers busy. 
Oh, dear.” Here Mr. Duffey executed another agonizing 
yawn. “ I could n’t stand it to ride to New Market to-day, 
now that I come to think of it. I’d drop off my horse and 
go to sleep at the roadside. Oh I’’ — brightening up — “I 
know what I’ll do 1 I’ll send John; that is if he is to be 


MAGGIE ROSS. 


145 


found. He will just like a ride such, a day as this. John 1 
I say, John I Where is that fellow ?” 

‘‘Here I am,” responded John, at that moment entering 
from the street. 

“ Well, get a piece of chalk, and — ” 

“And what?” John interrupted, in surprise. 

“ Make a long mark some where, for this is the first time I 
ever found you when I wanted you,” said the father, good- 
humoredly. 

“Why, I’m such a useless fellow, you know, that I didn’t 
suppose I could ever he wanted. Is it possible that I can be 
of any service?” 

“ Why, yes ; you can make yourself a little useful to-day. 
How would you like a ride to New Market?” 

“ I should enjoy it exceedingly this delightful day, and if 
that will benefit you in the least, I will start at once; so 
goodly, and — ” 

“But stop,” interrupted Mr. Dufifey, ‘*1 want you to do 
more than ride th^.re and back. I want you to take a note 
on Mr. Wilkins and collect it. You know him, don’t you?” 

“ Yes, I know him right well.” 

“ Then saddle your pony, and I’ll get the note.” 

John went to the stable, .while Mr. Duffey hunted up the 
bit of paper which contained Mr. Wilkins’s name for sixty 
dollars. The young man soon reappeared at the door, 
mounted upon his pony. 

“ I say, father?” he called out. 

“ I ’m coming — I have it now,” responded Mr. Duffey. 

“ I suppose he will pay it without any trouble?” 

“Yes, if you find him at home, you will have no difficulty 
in collecting it.” 

“ It won’t be necessary to lick him, or any thing of that 
sort?” suggested John. 

“Oh, go on,” said Mr. Duffey. “And remember one 
thing — do n’t stay two days, as you did when I sent you to 
Brownsville last summer ; on the contrary, I want you to get 

10 


146 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


back early this evening. Eemember, my positive orders are 
that you return *by eight or nine o’clock, at the latest ; you 
can easily do it.” 

Oh, I’ll be back by seven, you may depend,” said John, 
as he rode away in the direction of the ferry. 

“ If you are back by twelve, to-night,” muttered Mr. 
Duffey to himself, “you will be unusually punctual.” And 
he re-entered his store, resumed his seat in the arm-chair, and 
actually fell asleep. 

Now, if ever a young man meant to keep his word, John 
Duflfey probably did when he promised to return from New 
Market by seven o’clock. What followed, however, proved 
clearly that man is a mere creature of circumstances — and of 
pretty ones, too, sometimes. 

He reached New Market, without mishap, found Mr. 
Wilkins easily, and presented the note. Mr. W. paid it 
cheerfully, begging John to tell the “old man” that he was 
sorry he had put him to the trouble of sending over, that he 
had been intending to go over and pay the bill every day for 
the past three weeks, but that something had “turned up” 
continually to cause him to “put it off;” and that ^ he would 
surely have gone over to Weston on the following day, 
having most irrevocably “made up his mind” to that effect 
an hour before. 

John assured him tnat it was not of the slightest conse- 
quence ; that he came over for the ride more than any thing 
else, and that he was glad to have an excuse to get to New 
Market. After some conversation on trifling matters, John 
mounted his horse and was riding away, when Mr. Wilkins 
called out: 

“ Oh, I say, Duffey !” 

John returned to the gate by which Mr. Wilkins stood, 
and intimated that he was ready to hear what that gentle- 
man had to say. 

“ Why, you have a very warm friend in this place — did 
you know it?” said Mr. Wilkms, 


MAGGIE ROSS. 


147 


“Who is it?” asked John. 

“ Mr. Eoss. I understood that you were one of the two 
young men from Weston who rescued him from several high- 
waymen in September last.” 

“ Why, yes ; Will Hempstead, a friend of mine, and myself 
took sides with him when we saw he was fighting no less 
than three of the robbers. I always like to see fair play. 
Now, three to one, you know, is a mighty mean thing.” 

“ You ought to call on Mr. Eoss. I have heard him speak 
of you so often. He will be very glad to see you.” 

“Oh, I dread to meet him again,” John replied, “for he 
nearly smothered us with thanks that night. I am afraid he 
would commence it again. I’d die if he should, I know.” 

“ But you should call, by all means, urged Mr. Wilkins, 
and get acquainted with his family. They are all most 
agreeable people. Besides, he has a very pretty daughter. 
On your way from town you T1 pass his house ; I can point it 
out from here; it is that brick house just on that little hill 
y;mder — white palings in front, and — ” - 

“ Yes, I see.” 

“His store,” continued Mr. Wilkins, “is a hundred yards 
up this street. He is at his house- now, I know, for I saw 
him pass in that direction a little while before you. Now, if 
he hears you were in town, he T1 be very much put out 
because you did n’t stop and see him. Do so, won’t you?” 

“I’ll see about it,” replied John, who had not the most 
distant notion of stopping ; “ so, good-by.” 

“ Good-by. Eespects to the old man.” 

And John rode away. 

The residence of Mr. Eoss was a neat two-story brick 
house, standing upon a gentle eminence just without the 
town, and near the Weston road. ^As John arrived opposite 
the house, he observed a middle-aged man standing by the 
gate which opened into the little lawn in front of the house. 
Not doubting that it was Mr. Eoss, he merely bade him a 
good afternoon, and passed on, mentally observing : 


148 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


Glad he did n t recognize me !” 

But at that very moment the voice of the man at the gate 
etartled him with : 

‘‘ Young man r* 

“ Sir?” responded DufFey, halting. 

“Yes, I’m not mistaken,” said the gentleman, walking out 
upon the road. “ It is you.” 

“ Pardon me,” replied John, “ but I do assure you that you 
are mistaken. It is not I.” 

“ Yes, it is,” retorted Mr. Boss, laughing. “You are one 
of the young men with whom I became so opportunely 
acquainted one night last September. Come, now, don’t 
deny it, for I remember you quite well. Only think, you 
were going right out of town without calling. So, get ofi 
your horse, come in and stay till after supper, at least. Your 
horse shall be taken care of. My wife and daughter will be 
glad to see you, and — ” 

“ But really, sir — ’* 

“ No excuse. I know your voice well. You and youi 
companion did me a great favor last fall ; now you do me 
another by coming in and making yourself at home. I’ll 
hold your horse while you dismount.” And Mr. Ross actu- 
ally seized the bridle. 

“ I see there is no help for it,” said John, dismounting, 
“ but really — ” 

. “ No protestations — ” 

But let me at least beg you not to mention to your famiiy 
who I am till after I have departed. I don’t want to be 
lionized. It is so confusing, and — ” 

“ Oh, never fear,” interrupted Mr. Ross, ominously. 

Calling a lad who was at the stable-yard, a little way off, 
Mr. Ross gave the animal in his charge, with instructions to 
give it water and feed ; after which John was conducted into 
the house. 

“ Let me see,” said Mr. Ross, as he ushered his guest into 


MAG?GIE BOSS. 


149 


a neat and clean, thougli not splendid, parlor, “your name is 
either Diiffey, or Hempstead: which is it?” 

“ Duffey.” 

“ Then your companion’s name was Hempstead ?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“Pray be seated a moment,” said Mr. Ross, as he left the 
little parlor to go in quest of Mrs. and Miss R. 

“ Oh, ye fates!” sighed John, as he threw himself into one • 
chair, and his hat into another. “ What have I done that I 
shoidd suffer so? Here I am in my worst suit, my hair not 
combed since morning, my face and hands none of the 
clean^.st, my cravat not half tied, a coarse shirt on, my boots 
all dirty, and my pants wrinkled at the bottoms, and in a 
few minutes, no doubt, I am to stand in the presence of Mr. 
Ross’s beautiful daughter! Oh, why was I ever born? I 
wish sh# would n’t happen to. be at home. No, I do n’t 
either. I would like to see her, now that I come to think. 
Hark! I hear them coming! Oh, face, be brass! Oh, 
heart, be steel !” 

Mr. Ross re-entered, accompanied by an amiable-looking, 
middle-aged lady ; and a pretty, rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed, 
dai'k-haired girl of eighteen, whom he presented to “Mr. 
Duffey, his rescuer,” as his wife and daughter. 

“ You are welcome, Mr. Duffey,” said Mrs. Ross, advancing 
as the young man arose, and taking his hand. “ I am truly 
happy to know you at last, for I have earnestly desired to see 
you ever since I learned of your brave conduct. We shall 
never cease to remember you gratefully,” 

“I beg you will not speak of it,” replied John. “My 
friend and I only did what no true man would fail to do in 
the same case. You must not give me more credit than I 
deserve.” 

“ Bravery and modesty always go together,” said Miss 
Ross, as she took the young man by the hand. “ You would 
try to convince us that we do not owe you a lasting obliga/* 
tion. At the risk of your own life, you have saved one that 


I50 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


is invaluable to us; and should we ever come to look lightly 
upon it, we should be unworthy of your friendship. We 
will always love you and your brave friend for what you 
have done, no matter what you say.” 

As Duffey looked into those grateful eyes, he felt that 
were their owner inclined to “love” him, he would not 
certainly “ say” anything to prevent her. 

The evening was approaching, and after a little time the 
ladies, excusing themselves, left Mr. Eoss to entertain their 
guests, while they set about preparing supper. 

“You have not seen all my family yet,” said Mr. Eoss, 
when he and his guest were alone. “ I have a son, whom we 
call Tom, and who is about your age. He is absent now. I 
am sorry he is not here.” 

“ I should have been glad to see him,” returned Duffey, 
“ Does he assist in your store ?” 

“ Not often. His ideas do not seem to run in the business 
channel. He wishes to become a lawyer, and but lately I 
have consented that he should begin his studies with that 
view. I am sorry now that he did not begin five years 
earlier, since it is evident that nothing but a professional 
life will satisfy him ; but I fondly hoped to make a busincsfl 
man of him, that he might fill my place in a few years.” 

“Of course, then, you employ a clerk?” 

“Yes, I have a faithful and honest one, with whose 
services I would find it difficult to dispense. He is a married 
man, resides near the store, and is always at his post.” 

Mr. Eoss and his guest conversed on various topics till 
supper was announced, when they proceeded to the dining- 
room. John began to feel quite at home in the presence of 
his new friends. He liked Mr. Eoss very much, was highly 
pleased with Mrs. Eoss, and as for Miss Eoss — why, she 
was positively interesting to him. 

When supper was over, and the two men had returned to 
the little parlor, Mr. Eoss said : 

“ Mr. Duffey, make yourself comfortable ; I am obliged to 


ItAGGti! ROSS. 


151 


go to the store for half an hour; meantime I wiK send one 
of the ladies in to keep you company.” [DufFey wondered 
which one it would be.] 

“ I should be on my way to "Weston soon,’* DuiFey 
returned. 

“ Oh, do not be in a hurry. What is to prevent you from 
staying all night? I have plenty of room — ” 

“ Oh, I must go home this evening. I am expected, and 
should I remain away all night, some anxiety would prevail 
at home.” 

“ At least, I will find you here when I return,** said Mr. 
Ross. “ An hour will make but little difference to you.** 

“ Yes, I will wait till you return.” 

Mr. Ross left the parlor, and a few minutes later the hand- 
some daughter entered. The youthful pair soon began to 
feel acquainted, and they passed an hour right happily 
'together. Within that hour DufFey disovered that the fail 
young lady’s Christian name was Maggie (he had always 
admired that name); and Miss Ross, on her part, learned 
that the name of her lively young guest w'as John — a plain, 
honest name. There was no uncalled-for restraint upon 
their conversation; and they talked affably together, of 
various matters, as sensible young folks will. 

Mr. Ross remained away a great deal longer than he had 
anticipated, being unavoidably detained; and before John 
was aware of it, he had actually spent the evening in the 
pleasant little parlor. Candles had been lighted in the 
meantime, and he had examined some pretty pictures and 
interesting books, which were shown him by his companion. 

“ What, nine o’clock !” he exclaimed, as the tall, old- 
fashioned clock in the corner unceremoniously chimed forth 
mat hour. “ Why, how quickly the time has passed !” 

[It always does when one is perfectly comfortable.] 

“ That is not late,” said Miss Maggie. 

It is late for me not to be on my way home.** 

"‘You had better stay to-night. Indeed, I wish you 


152 


THE WHITE ROCItS. 


would, for,*^ said Maggie, manifesting evident concern, “it 
may not be safe to travel so late.” 

“ Oh, there is nothing to fear,” replied John, carelessly. 
“I hear some one coming through the gate; is it your 
father?” 

“ I think it is,” replied Miss Ross, peering from the 
window ; “ but it is so dark that — yes, it is he ; I know his 

walk.” 

A moment later Mr. Ross entered the parlor. 

“ I was detained at the store longer than I had expected to 
be,” he apologized; “ but I hope you have enjoyed yourself.” 

“Oh, yes, sir; I have spent the evening quite pleasantly. 
I would be glad to stay" longer had I not so far to go 
to-night.” 

“ Can I not prevail on you to stay till morning?” 

“ I thank you ; but I must go.” 

“ If you are determined, I will get your horse.” 

“ If you please,” said John. 

While Mr. Ross went to the stable, Mrs. R. came into the 
parlor. It was so dark without that it required fifteen 
minutes or more to saddle and bridle the horse. When it 
was announced that the animal was ready, Duffey took his 
leave, and walked toward the gate. 

“ You must not think of making this your last visit,” 
called out both mother and daughter, as he reached the 
road. 

“ You will come and see us again by all means, now that 
you are acquainted,” added Mr. Ross. 

“ I will not forget your kindness and hospitality,” replied 
Duifey ; “ and I promise you that I will never come to New 
Market without calling on you — if you don’t get tired 
of me.” 

“ No fear of that. You must get acquainted with Tom ; 
you will probably find him at home next time.” 

“ I will be glad to know him. So, you will see me again. 
Till then, good-by.” 


THE DELINQUENT SON. 


152 


** Good-by — and a safe journey,” 

And the young man rode rapidly away. 

It would be no exaggeration to say that John Duffey 
th »ught of Miss Maggie Ross more than once daring hi? 
lonely ride. Nor would we hazard our reputation for vera- 
city WKxe we to assert that the latter thought of the gallani 
young man at least once or twice that night after he had 
gone, and weverai times every day for many ensuing weeks. 


CHAPTER XV. 

TKJ! DELINQUENT SON. 

It was nearly midnight when John DulFey, after his lonely 
ride, found himself at the Monongahela River, opposite 
Weston. As the ferryman resided on the Weston side, the 
chances of arousing him at that solemn hour of the night 
appeared rather slim. Now, what was he to do ? — remain in 
Greene county all night? He might as well have stayed 
at the house of Mr. Ross, where — oh, dear ! Several times he 
was on the point of yelling out at the top of his voice, in the 
hope of awaking the sleeping ferryman ; but then he 
thought how* futile such a proceeding would be, and how 
foolish it would be to exhaust his lungs in a hopeless enter- 
prise. 

“ Ah, I have it !” he suddenly exclaimed. “ I’ll take some 
body’s skiff, which I can return in the morning, and I’ll row 
across and make pony swim. He can do it easily. I’ll tie 
the bridle to the boat.” 

• John found a skiff near the wharf, and with considerable 
difficulty put his plan into execution. He was near drowning 
his favorite animal in the operation, for in the darkness he 


154 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


missed tte landing on tte Fayette county side, striking tke 
steep bank some rods below'. With ready tact, however, he 
turned the boat up stream, and soon after had the satisfac- 
tion of leading the almost exhausted animal up the wharf. 

The quiet which reigned in the village was only equaled 
by the darkness which hung about it. While there was not 
a sound to be heard, there was not a light to be seen, and but 
for the stars that twinkled above, it would have been diffi- 
cult to ascertain optically that there was any village there. 

Groping and feeling his way about, aided by many familial 
landmarks, Duffey within a quarter of an hour lodged his 
panting horse in the stable. That done, he proceeded to the 
house, and after a little unpleasant pounding upon the back 
door, succeeded in awaking a younger brother, who arose, let 
him in, and immediately returned to his dreams. 

Weary after his exertion, John ascended to his room over 
the store, divested himself of his raiment, tumbled into bed, 
and in ten minutes more would no doubt have been dreaming 
of somebody ; but just then his ear caught the sound of 
stealthy footsteps and suppressed voices in the street beneath 
his window. In a moment his weariness and drowsiness left 
him, and he was all attention. Going to the window, he 
cautiously raised the sash and peeped out. He could barel}^ 
make out several dark forms below, and he distinctly heard 
a few whispered words. Presently a low, grating sound 
struck his ear, and the truth flashed upon him — that thieves 
were at work trying to force open one of the windows with a 
view to robbing the store. He immediately groped his way 
to a shelf in a distant corner of the room, where he always 
kept a loaded horse-pistol, in view of such emergency; and 
with that instrument in his hand he returned to his post and 
listened. 

There could be no doubt of the intentions of the nocturnal 
adventurers at the lower window. A saw or file was at work 
on the iron bolt, and it was cutting its way through with a 
alight sound, which only the stillness of the night rendered 


THE DELINQUENT SON. 155 

AiirliWe. He could hear whispering occasionally. The first 
voice he heard — and it was a strange one to him — asked 

“ Ha’n’c ye got the darned thing sawed through yit?” 

Poortj near,” replied a voice, which even in its whisper 
sounded gruff, and which the listener imagined he had heard 
somewhere. “ Are ye sure the lantern ’s all fixed ?” 

“ Yes, that’s certain,” was the reply. 

A dozen times more the saw was drawn back and forth 
across the iron bolt, then a slight snap announced that it had 
walked through. 

“There, it’s off,” whispered the gruff voice; “let the bar 
down easy. There. Now, if the darned shetter don’t 
skreech — ” 

At this moment John Duffey, thinking himself one of the 
most reason.able and indulgent of fellows for having allowed 
the rascals to proceed thus far, deliberately called out : — 

“ Gentlemen, as you will find it difficult to get in there, 
b(.cause of a few trifling shelves that obstruct the window, I 
would respectfully suggest that, if you are in no particular 
hurry, you* wait one moment, and I will come down and open 
the door.” 

It would be impossible, in words, to do justice to the effect 
this singular and unlooked-for address had upon the startled 
ruffians. Had the sudden voice shouted, “ Murder ! Help I 
Thieves! Eobbers!” or any thing of that sort, they would 
have rushed away with a unanimity of purpose and action 
that would have been interesting to the beholder ; but to be 
greeted in that cool, complacent, familiar, matter-of-course 
style, struck them with dumb, silent, motionless confusion. 
They doubted whether they had heard aright — whether they 
had heard anything at all — whether they were awake — 
whether they were alive; and there they stood, without 
speaking, or moving, or seeing, or hearing, or feeling, for the 
space of ten seconds, when the click of a firelock brought 
them to their senses. Then suddenly realizing the danger 
that threatened them, they sprang away up the street, with 


156 


THE WHITE BOCKS. 


every muscle strained to the highest pitch, and darted oS 
into the darkness, dropping a saw, a file, a bunch of keys, a 
dark lantern, a hat, a cap, a knife, or a pistol at every bound. 

Bang! went the heavy horse-pistol, breaking cruelly upon 
the stillness of tke night, and jarring every pane of glass in 
the village, while three or four ill-shapen slugs went whizzing 
after, the flying robbei*s, whose footsteps soon died away to- 
ward the upper end of the village. Hurriedly drawing on 
his boots and “ incomprehensibilities,” Duffey rushed down 
stairs with a view to pursuing them. All the family had 
been aroused by the report of the pistol, and to their eager 
inquiries he replied in half-a-dozen words, then ran out and 
over to Tony Baily’s, where he fired the little cannon, as a 
signal for the assembling of the thief-hunters. Its loud 
echoes startled many a sleeper from his dreams, and in ten 
minutes a score of George Boland’s “ rangers” were collected 
at the tavern, himself among them, who, after a word of ex- 
planation from Duffey, started in pursuit of the robbers. 
The darkness was so great that they could scarcely hope to 
succeed in capturing any of the villains, who could easily 
take to the woods or fields at any point, and thus elude them. 
The party went a few miles up the road, which was a narrow 
country road that followed the river, and at last returned 
from their fruitless chase. 

Meanwhile, Bill and his companions returned to their boat, 
which they had left above the village, re-embarked, pushed 
out into the current, and floated quietly down the river. 
When they got below the village, they took their oars and 
fell to rowing for dear life. They were happy to escape 
unhurt, and yet they could not help feeling dissatisfied with 
the result of their adventure ; for, besides being unsuccessful 
in an attempt to secure valuable booty, their nervous systems 
had encountered a shock which it would require several days 
of perfect quiet, and a number of quarts of “ old rye,” to 
allay. Nor was this all. They had lost, beyond hope of re- 
covery, some of their most useful professional implements, to 


THE DELINQUENT SON. 15/ 

gay notting of sundry hats, for every man had lost, in his 
hurry and flurry, the valuable “ tile” from his head. 

There was no more sleeping done in Weston that night. 
The excited villagers soon learned that a moat daring rob]>ery 
had been attempted in their midst (which, by the way, de- 
veloped the interesting fact that the outlaws were not 
banished from the neighborhood); and the male portion 
flocked to the scene of the intended burglary, and saw with 
their own eyes the severed bolt, the half-opened window, 
and the keys, house-breaking implements, weapons, and stray 
hats which lay scattered about. 

When the young men returned from their unsuccessful 
pursuit, Mr. DufFey called his son in and requested him to 
relate the particulars. Thereupon the young man told his 
father how he had overstayed his time at New Market, a few 
hours merely ; what a time of it he had had crossing the 
river, and how he had arrived home, been admitted by his 
brother, gone up stairs to his room only a few minutes before 
the arrival of the thieves; how he had interrupted them, 
fired on them with his horse-pistol, and how delightfully they 
had scampered away. 

“ Thus, father,” said he, in conclusion, “ you see that had I 
come home early in the evening, as you would have scolded 
me for failing to do had not this aflfair happened, I would 
have been in bed and sound asleep at the time the robbers 
came, and they would certainly have succeeded. But by 
staying at New Market till nearly ten o’clock, contrary to 
your express orders, I arrived home just about midnight, was 
wide awake when they came, and thus prevented you from 
being robbed. You see what a blessed thing it is to have a 
disobedient and undutiful son 1** 


158 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE DREAM. 

** So, to-morrow is the day appointed for the picnic at thf 
White Rocks, is it not?” asked Aunt Eliza, as the family of 
Ira Tate sat down to supper on a beautiful evening in June. 

Yes, to-morrow is the day,” Mary replied; ‘‘and it pro- 
mises to be a fair one.” 

“I suppose you are both going?” ventured Aunt Eliza, 
addressing Mary and Tilly jointly. 

“Yes,” replied Matilda, “we are to join the party when 
they arrive here, and of course we will, if father will give his 
consent and let us have the ’\orses.” 

Ira, who had an hour before killed a beautiful guinea fowl 
in the farm-yard, because he ran a splinter in his hand while 
climbing the fence, did not reply. Sis silence, however, was 
always considered equivalent to assent. 

“ We shall miss the best part of the ride,” said Mary. “ I 
am sorry that I cannot start from the village with the party, 
as I used to when I lived near.” 

“ Y think,” said Aunt Eliza, “you possess several valuable 
advantages by residing here. Three at least.” 

“ What are they?” inquired Mary. 

“ Why, in the first place,” said Aunt Eliza, “ you will not 
be obliged to get ready so early.” 

“Well, what else? though I don’t mind that.” 

“ Why,” continued Aunt Eliza, “ you will not be so likely 
to get belated on your return.” 

“ That is true. The last time I accompanied a party to 
Uie White Rocks we stayed there till nearly sunset, and the 


THE DREAM. 


159 


consequenoe was that it was after nine o’clock when I got 
home.” 

“Yes,” replied Aunt Eliza, “ and uneasy enough I was 
about you.” 

“ But what other advantage?” asked Mary. 

“ The third,” replied Aunt Eliza, with an air of wisdom, 
•*is the greatest of all.” 

“ Why, what can it be ?** 

“ Can you not guess ?” 

“ No, I am sure I can not.” 

“ Then I will tell you: By leaving the party here, as they 
return, you escape from the odious society of the men the 
sooner.” 

“ Oh, dear me. Aunt,” said Mary, laughing, “ I think that 
is one of the c?f5-ad vantages.” 

“ And I,” Tilly agreed. 

“ So you may think now,” responded Aunt Eliza, “ but 
when you are my age — listen!” 

They were taking supper in the kitchen at the rear of the 
building, and at that moment the vigorous barking of the 
dog in front of the house attracted their attention. 

“Some one is coming! I’Jl go and see who it is,” said 
Mary, arising and leaving the kitchen. 

On entering a front room, she glanced from the open door, 
and saw George Koland coming up the' path. 

“Why, is it you, George? (Get out. Jack!) How do 
you do? (You, Jack!) You are quite a stranger. (Jack, 
you rascal!) How have you been (Jack, stop your noise!) 
for so long, and where?” said Mary, addressing alternately 
the visitor and the dog. 

“ It is I. I have been quite well, thank you, and at home,” 
replied George, answering all her queries in a breath. “ I 
am glad to see you looking so well;” and then, without the 
slightest warning, by look or gesture, or the briefest. preface 
in words, he informed Mary that it was a “fine evening.” 

“ It is, indeed,” Mary replied. “ But come in,” 


160 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


‘‘ No, thank you ; it is growing late, and I must hurry 
home. I had an errand in the neighborhood, and one 0/ 
Tilly’s friends requested me to carry a note to her. It is 
something relating to the party, I think. Will you please 
give it her?” and George produced a folded paper. 

“ I will call her — ” 

“ No ; T am sure you can be trusted with it,” interrupted 
George, laughing. 

“But will you not come in?” said Mary, taking the note. 

“ No ; as I said before, it is getting late. I did not even 
tie my horse. You see him standing in the road by the 
gate. He seems impatient to be off. How are all the 
family? — your aunt, your cousin, and your honest old 
ancle?” 

“All quite well, and would be delighted to see you — ” 

“ Except your aunt, who, I know, do n’t like me any too 
well,” interrupted George. 

“ I can’t say that,” Mary replied. “ But they are at 
supper; and I think you might come in and join them.” 

“ No, I must be off at once,” replied George, who did not 
feel at ease in Mary’s presence. “ Therefore — ” 

“ You will be of the party to-morrow ?” interrupted Mary. 

“Oh, yes,” replied George; “but there was a time when 
you would not have found it necessary to ask me that. 
However, that is gone. Yes, I am going, and Kitty Hemp- 
stead is to be my companion.” 

“ Kitty is an agreeable girl,” suggested Mary. 

“ By all means,” George rejoined. 

“ I expect you two will strike up a match yet.” 

“If we do,” replied George, prophetically, “it will be 
after to-day.” 

“ It might not be very long after,” Mary retorted. 

“There is no knowing. You are going to the Wh te 
Rocks, of course?” said George. 

“ I may possibly,” was the reply. 

“ Or, rather, you shall, probably,” suggested George. 


THE DREAM. 


161 


“ Why, I cannot be sure, for — in fact, it may rain.*' 

“Exactly. Well, good-evening.” 

“ Good-evening ; and thanks, on behalf of Tilly ioi your 
kindness in — ” 

“ Do n’t mention it,*’ interrupted George ; and he walked 
to the gate, mounted his horse, and rode away, while Mary 
returned to the homely dining-room. 

“ Who was it ?” asked Aunt Eliza. 

** George Roland.” 

“A good young fellow,” gravely remarked Ira, half to 
himself; after which he relapsed into the most imperturbable 
silence. 

“ Has he gone?” asked Aunt Eliza. 

“ Yes ; just gone.” 

“Why, what did he want?” 

“ Only to leave a note for Tilly — here it is,** replied Mary, 
giving her cousin the neatly-folded paper. 

That tender maiden blushed as she recognized in the 
address that bold, do n’t-care-a-straw-for-anybody hand-wri- 
ting of — Ned. 

“From some young fellow, no doubt,” ventured Aunt 
Eliza. 

“It is merely a note from one of my Weston friends, 
requesting Mary and me to join the party here to-morrow 
morning at half-past ten,” replied Tilly, evasively. 

“ Oh, these parties !” exclaimed Aunt Eliza. “ The young 
folks are going mad. We hear nothing but talk of parties. 
When I was a girl, such things were not thought of.” 

“ But people have had time to grow wiser since tlien,” 
mildly suggested Mary. 

“ Rather say foolisher,” retorted Aunt Eliza, without per- 
ceiving this hit at her age, which was probably innocently 
enough given by her niece. 

After supper Tilly called Mary aside, and said : 

“ Mary, George Roland didn’t chance to tell you whom thid 
note was from, did he ?” 


162 


THE WHITE BOCKS. 


“No; and I didn’t ask kirn. Why?” 

“ Because ; can you guess whom it is from ?” 

“ I might, perhaps, but — ” 

“ Well, not to keep you in suspense, it is from somehcdy!^ 
said Tilly, with significant emphasis. 

“ That,” said Mary, “ means Ned St — ” 

“ Hush! Aunt will hear you!” cautioned Tilly. 

“ I am right then, am I ?” 

“ Why — I — I — y — yes,” Tilly replied, confusedly. 

“And what does he say of the party?” asked Mary, who 
felt sure there was a word in it for her. 

“He says that we are respectfully requested to hold our- 
selves in readiness to-morrow at half-past ten ; and that not 
only somebody, but also somebody else, will be with the 
party,” said Tilly, gazing meaningly into her cousin’s face. 

“Whom do you mean by that?” asked Mary, just as if 
she did n’t know. 

“You are so good at guessing,” replied Tilly, “that^I 
think you need hardly ask. You guessed one ; can you not 
guess the other ?” 

“How should I?” retorted Mary; whose tone, however, 
clearly betrayed the fact that she could fo'^m an idea as to 
who it was. 

“ Well, then it ’s Phil—” 

“ Hush ! Aunt will hear,” Mary interrupted. 

Her cousin laughed. 

“ Here,” she said, giving Mary the missive, “ read it for 
yourself; there are no secrets in it.” 

Mary took it, and read as follows: 


“Weston, June 9th, — 

“MISS MAXILDA TATE— 

“Kespected and Esteemed Lady: 

“ George Eoland informs me that he has occasion to 
visit your immediate neighborhood, and I have asked him to 
he the bearer of this note. (Pardon me for taking the 


THE DREAM. 


163 


liter ty of addressing you in writing). Arrangements have 
been made for a grand picnic at the White Rocks to-morrow. 
Phil Kirke and I expect to accompany the party ; but we 
have no female companions here. We therefore earnestly 
hope that, if you and your cousin, Miss Mary White, will 
pardon our presumption and consent to accompany us, we 
will not be companion less. The party, all mounted of course, 
will reach your father’s house at half-past ten o’clock, when 
it is hoped you will be ready to join us. 

Very sincerely your — your — friend, 

“ NED.” 


So that is the arrangement,” observed Mary. 

“ Yes, and a good one. I am glad our friends at the 
village do not forget us,” Tilly replied. 

“ I hope the day will be fair,” said Mary. 

•‘Oh, it would be too bad if it should rain.” 

•* Not much danger of it,” resumed Mary, “ for it rained 
only yesterday, and probably will not again for a week.” 

“ True. Oh, it will be a nice day, I know.” 

That night the cousins, who slept in the same room, 
retired before nine o’clock, in order to be up early in the 
morning; but as they naturally fell to talking just a little 
of the morrow and its probable enjoyment, it was past ten 
ere they closed their eyes. 

It was very quiet there by the mountain. The moon, 
which was now in its useless stage, had risen during the 
day, and it went down about nine o’clock, leaving the valley 
wrapped in thick darkness. The tall mountains hard by 
looked gloomily down upon the lower earth, as if enjoining 
silence. The solemn cry of the owl was heard occasionally, 
the monotonous notes of the whi^oorwill, or the rustling of 
a leaf as the bat flitted among the branches of the old oak ; 
but these sounds seemed only to deepen the gloom and 
solitude of the night. 

Mary dreamed of the party ere she awoke. She dreamed 


164 


IHE WHITE BOCKS. 


that the morning had come; that the horses were ready at 
the gate for herself and cousin, and that they were awaiting 
the approach of the party. But -the morning seemed to wear 
away, hour after hour glided by, and the party did not come. 
Noon came and went, the afternoon wore away, night 
approached, the sun went down fiery red, and they had not yet 
come. All the while Mary imagined that she was waiting 
patiently, not doubting they would come yet. Sure enough, 
when it had grown dark, they came, and Mary and her cousin 
mounted their horses. When they were about to move away, 
the father of Mary — whom she imagined to be still alive — 
came rushing into the road, seized the bridle of the horse, 
and trembling as with anger, and looking upon her as he had 
never done before, forbade her to go. But Philip Kirke 
struck him a blow upon the head and felled him to the 
ground ; whereupon the whole party galloped away ; and 
the next instant the scene wms shifted, and they were at the 
White Rocks. But the darkness had now grown intense, 
heavy clouds gathered over, and a furious storm burst forth. 
The lurid glare of the lightning was blinding, and the roll 
of the thunder deafening ; while rain and hail poured from 
the angry heavens, and threatened to wash the very moun- 
tains away. All had dismounted and assembled upon the 
high rock; and while they stood huddled together in aive of 
the storm, a fearful howling noise was heard on the mountain 
above them. Louder and nearer it grew, till it seemed on 
the point of rolling down upon them. “It is a hurricane T' 
screamed several of the party, in terroi, and a general rush 
was made toward 'where the horses stood. But Mary was 
struck motionless, and stood on the White Rocks, alone in 
the darkness and in the storm. With a mad fury a great 
wind came sweeping dowff the mountain, tearing up the 
trees and scattering them about. On it came, and as it 
reached Mary, she ^Vas blown like a feather toward the brink 
of the precipice. She shouted and screamed, but in the 
awful tumult of the storm she could not hear her own voice. 


_ THE DEEAM. 16a 

Nearer and nearer she was borne to the frightful precij)ic«» 
by the merciless winds, a moment she struggled on the 
trink, then was swept over. As she descended, a black 
cloud that hung over opened, and within it she saw her 
angry father, and in that awful instant heard him cry in a 
voice louder than the storm : 

“Oh, Mary! Heedless girl I Why did you come to the 
White Eocks?” 

Then, screaming in reality, she sprang from her pillow to 
meet with her opening eyes the early morning sun that waa 
shining gloriously in through the window. 

“Why, what on earth is the matter?” exclaimed Tilly, 
starting from her own dreams at the sound of her cousin’s 
voice. 

“ Only a dream,” said Mary, trembling. 

“ How you screamed I It must have been a scary vision.” 

“ Did I scream ?” 

“ Yes. What were you dreaming of?” 

-“Oh, nothing of any consequence. I see it is morning; 
let us get up. I wonder how late it is ?” 

“Eathei say how early,” replied Tilly; “for the sun ia 
barely up. It cannot be more than five.” 

The girls arose. It was not an unusual thing, nor is it 
LOW, for country people to arise at five or earlier. Such a 
custom, accompanied by early retiring, might be adopted, 
with great aa vantage, by all, both in the country and in the 
city. What mental, moral, or physical advantage is derived 
by retiring at twelve, one, or two, and arising at nine or 
ten, has never been clearly demonstrated. 

Mary raised the window-sash and looked out. If her 
dream had cast any gloom over her, the beauties of that 
summer morning would surely have been capable of dispelling 
it. Early as it was, the birds were singing merrily. The 
dew hung so heavily on every green leaf that it looked as if 
a shower nad visited the earth. Not a cloud was to be seen. 
Nc: the slightest breeze stirred, but the air was cool and 


166 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


resiling. The fragrance of the various flowers in the gar- 
den near by flowed in at the open window and filled the 
room. Nature, clad in her most beautiful robes, was in her 
sweetest humor. 

“ Oh, what a lovely morning !*’ Mary exclaimed. 
“Delightful,” replied Tilly. “No fear that the picnic will 
postponed on account of the weather.” 

“ I think we may look for the party at the appointed time,” 
».id Mary, recollecting her dream. 

“ Certainly. The morning is so delightful, and the day 
p^'omises to be so fair, that all will unhesitatingly hurry to 
Il'*e village — those who do not live immediately in Weston— 
trtd the party will soon be made up.” 

“ It is two years since I was at a picnic on the mountain,** 
remarked Mary; “ I know I shall enjoy it to-day.” 

“ I know of nothing to prevent you, unless it should rain 
V storm while we are there.’* 

Mary started. 

“What is the matter?” asked Tilly, 

“Oh, I was just thinking of my dream.** 

“ And what was your dream?” 

“ I thought we visited the White Eocks, but, strangely 
enough, it was in the night. While there a terrible storm 
burst forth, and frightened all the party away but myself.” 

“ And it did n’t frighten you?” 

“ Oh, yes; but I imagined I could not move till the winds 
came rushing down upon me ; then I was blown over the 
precipice, and — ” 

“ Dashed to pieces,” suggested Tilly. 

“ Why, luckily, I awoke just in time to escape that fate,” 
“With a scream, too,” replied Tilly. “Was that what 
made you cry out so ?” 

“Not exclusively. I dreamed that father was still alive; 
that he had forbidden me to go; that I had gone in spite of 
him, and that as I fell over the rocks I saw him in a dark 


THE DREAM. 


167 


i 


clond, and heard him calling to me * Oh, heedless girl! why 
did you come?’ Was not that a strange dream?” 

“ Oh, dreams are nothing,” replied Tilly. “ I dreamed 
once that I was lost in Delany’s Cave. I thought I wandered 
about for a long time in the darkness, and at last threw my- 
self down in despair. When I did so, something rattled 
under me so curiously that I put my hand down to feel what 
it was, and oh, what do you think?” 

Not a rattlesnake, was it?” 

“ No, it was a skeleton I — the dry bones of some wretched 
creature who had perished there before me.” 

“ What did you then do ?” 

“ I screamed with terror, and awoke. I was trembling 
violently, and my heart was leaping about as though trying 
to escape from my body. How singular that a mere dream 
will have such an effect.” 

“ Yes, I have often thought that such a dream is more 
frightful than the reality. But I prefer the dream, for it 
don’t last so long.” 

“ Besides,” added Tilly, “ the pleasure of awaking and 
finding it but a dream is a consideration.” 

“ True,” replied Mary. “ If there is real pleasure in this 
world, it is to awake from a terrible dream, and find yourself 
safe and comfortable.” 

Aunt Eliza was already up and busy preparing breakfast. 
The girls joined her and lent their assistance. Ira was at 
the barn, looking after the horses. When breakfast was 
ready he was called, and that meal was dispatched, and 
every vestige of it removed — dishes washed and all — by six 
o’clock. Ira, telling the girls that he would return in duo 
time and saddle the horses for them, started for the fields. 


168 


THE 'WHITE ROCKSk 


CHAPTER XVIL 

PLEASURE AND PAIN. 

A CLOUD of dust heralded the approach of the party from 
V/eston. As it arose in the distance it was seen by Mary 
White and her cousin, and as the horses they were to ride 
stood saddled and bridled in the road, they walked down to 
the gate to be ready to join the gay equestrians. When 
they arrived, innumerable greetings were exchanged by the 
cousins and their friends, and in the meantime, gallantly 
attended by Philip Kirke and Ned Stanton respectively, 
Mary and Tilly ascended to their saddles and fell in the line, 
militarily speaking. Then all moved on, and were soon 
taking their way up the steep mountain. 

However delightful equestrian exercise may be in the ab- 
stract, it was no joke to ride up an uneven path that ascended 
toward the clouds, as it were, at an angle of about thirty 
degrees. At times the horse, as it surmounted a poHlcularly 
steep point, arose to a strictly vertical position, nicely poised 
on the hind feet ; so that, taking into account the weight of 
the rider which clung to the back of the animal, it became a 
wonder, and one which would have borne scientific investi- 
gation, that the whole equipage, horse, saddle, bridle, and 
rider, did not tumble backward as often as forward. No 
accident of that nature happened, however, and in due time 
the party reached the White Rocks. 

Oh,” exclaimed Mary White, abriqotly, “I have been 
trying to think who was missing from the party. I Know 
now.” 

‘‘Who?” asked several. 

“John Duffey. He is not here. Why is that?*’ 


PLEASURE AND PAIN. 


169 


“He went to New Market yesterday,” repli^^d one, “and 
had not returned when we started. However, lie was known 
to say, some days ago, that he would not come to the moun- 
tain to-day ; no companion, therefore, was selected for him.” 

“ That is strange,” Mary replied. “ This is the first affair 
of the kind I ever knew him to miss.” 

“ It is rumored that he has fallen in love with a pretty 
New Market lady, and therefore do n’t care about the Weston 
girls any more.” 

“ I’d speak of his falling in love,” observed a lass, who had 
ouee thought him enamoured of herself, but had in due time 
learned her mistake. ''He fall in love! Dear me I Don't 
believe it! He is proof against it!” 

“1 don’t know,” gravely remarked another; “it is said 
there is a match for every one, and I believe it. I care not 
how handsome, how ugly, how cross, how good-natured, liow 
smart, or how foolish a man may be, he is sure to encounter 
some female who, whether like him or not, seems to be just 
the partner for him, and the result is — a wedding.” 

“ Well said,” concurred Ned Stanton. “ Nature would be 
wasting time by creating a man or woman without creating, 
about the same time, a fit companion. I believe the whole 
world is paired off, and if one do n’t hunt up his appointed 
partner and marry her, it is his own fault.” And he glanced 
at Tilly, who glanced some other way just then. 

A little way from the White Rocks was a gently inclining 
plain of a few acres, covered with grass and small bushes. 
Here the horses were picketed, and the whole party pro- 
ceeded to the cliff. 

All were festive and happy. A mutual merry humor, 
much in keeping with the pleasant day and the beautiful 
scenes around them, prevailed. They spent an hour gazing 
upon the green rolling landscape that was spread out below, 
and Inhaling the pure invigorating mountain 'air ; then fol- 
ic wed the repast, which consisted of bread-and-butter, pies, 
cakes, and sweetmeats, which the girls had brought in their 


170 


THE WHITE HOCKS. 


eatdiels. Then, with the understanding that thej should re- 
assemble at about three o’clock to prepare for their departure, 
all wandered forth among the rocks and shady trees in small 
groaj>s or in twos. Ned Stauion escorted Miss Tilly Tate in 
A stroll, with a gallantry of bearing that did him great credit, 
considering that he^. false fellow, was only playing a part. 
George Eoland accompanied Miss Kitty Hempstead, while 
her Cousin Will was,, as usual, agreeable to Miss Duffey. 
Philip Kirke, of course, was at Mary’s side. 

** No danger of snakes, I hope?” shuddered Miss Tilly, as 
fche and her protector took their way among the rough rocks 
and thick trees. 

“ Not while I am with you, Tilly,”* replied Mr. Stanton, 
in a tone barely tinged with gallant reproach. 

“ Oh, I know you would n’t let them hurt me,” she apolo- 
gized; “but — but — they might hite you,*' And she sighed 
at the thought. 

“ A snake won’t bite'»i€‘,” said Stanton, consolingly ; “ espe- 
cially a rattlesnake^ Y^hich species of reptile chiefly abounds 
in these mountains. Besides, I have a mode of killing them, 
which, for eflectiveness and dispatch, cannot be eijcijtled or 
ever* equaled.” 

“ Ah, how is that 

“ Why, I simply take them by the tail — ** 

“Oh, you frighten me!” 

“ — And, by giving it a flourish and a jerk, such as any 
one accustomed to handling a whip is familiar with, I suddenly 
dislocate the neck and detach the head of the monster, send- 
ing it spinning never less than thirty feet.’* 

“ Oh, you are only joking.” 

“Indeed I am not. If we only chance to find one hero 
among the rocks — ” 

“ Oh, I hope you wouldn’t. I should faint.’” 

“Certainly I would. You could stand behind a tree or a 
rocK, so that it would not hit you. But we will not probably 
see any to-day, it is too early ia the season. Wait till buckle- 


PLEASURE AND PAIN. 


171 


l>eny>time; they are in their glory then. Great, fat, sleels 
fellows — ” 

“ Oh, I shudder to think of them,” interrupted Tilly, “ Did 
you ever dream of snakes?” 

“ Several times in my life.” 

“ It is said to signify that you have enemies.** 

*^So I have been informed.” 

And,” continued Tilly, “ if you kill the reptile that you 
will triumph over them.” 

I believe it,” returned Ned ; ** for once I dreamed of find- 
ing a great black-snake in my boot, where it had crawled 
while I was walking through the tall grass. I seized its tail, 
jerked it out, and snapped its head off in a twinkling; and 
on the very next day I was in Weston, and happened to meet 
a fellow there from Greene county, a rough character of the 
name of Job Welles, who for some reason bore a grudge 
against me, and he swore he would not go out of town until 
he should lick me. Now, every one knows that I am one of 
the most peaceably-disposed — ” 

“ Yes, I know.” 

“ — fellows in the county, and I did all in my power to 
pacify the ruffian, to assure him that I had nothing against 
him, and that it was not really necessary for him to lick me. 
He would have it though, and finding that there was no help 
for it, I threw off my coat and gave him the most terrible 
whipping he ever had in his life — all in about three-quarters 
of a minute.” 

“ I presume he left then ?” 

“Yes, right away; and with my solemn promise as a man 
of honor, that should he ever show his face in Weston again 
1 would give him five times as much, which would be equiva- 
lent to knocking the last breath out of him.” 

“ And he has never been in Weston since ?” 

“ Never.” 

“Then,” said Tilly, “you should be regaided as a j>ablio 
benefactor, in ridding our settlement of the. occasional pro* 


172 


THE WHITE BOCKS. 


Bence of that rough man. I have heard of him frequentljj 
and I know that he is an unscrupulous fellow.” 

Thus the conversation went on, as they wandered listlessly 
about the mountain. On one occasion Ned, with a significant 
fiigh, abruptly observed: — 

“ Tilly, I have thought — I — ” and he hesitated. 

“What?” queried Tilly, almost eagerly. 

“ Oh, nothing,” replied Ned, with another sigh ; and he 
appeared sad and thoughtful during the remainder of the 
day. 

Philip Kirke with Mary, and George Roland with Kitty, 
rambled away up the mountain in nearly the same direction. 
Philip and Mary stopped to examine some letters on an old 
beech-tree, while George and his companion passed on. In 
a few minutes Philip and Mary again walked on, stepping 
from rock to rock with the sprightliness inspired by the plea- 
sant air and the wild scenery. 

“ Are you not growing tired ?” Philip at length asked. 

“ A very little,” Mary replied. 

“ Then let us rest, by all means,” he urged. “ There,” 
pointing to the trunk of a fallen tree a little out of their way, 
“ is a good seat for such a wild place as this, at least.” 

“ Then let us avail ourselves of it.” 

They walked to the rough bench which Nature in her 
leisure hours had provided, and sat down. 

“ How beautiful the day is,” said Philip. 

“ Charming,” Mary replied. “We could not have had a 
pleasanter. I think dreams must have a contrary significa- 
tion, if any, for I dreamed last night that it stormed terribly 
while we were at the White Rocks. But the weather could 
not be more mild nor the mountain more beautiful than to- 
day.” 

“ True. 1 love the mountains on such a day as this,” said 
Philip, rather sentime/itally. “ They seem to ^mile congenial 
with the blue sky, as if together they were determined to 
make man happy, i^ll that detracts from my enjoyment 


PLEASUHE AND PAIN. 


173 


now is the thought of so soon leaving these bright scenes, 
and — of — of — leaving you.” 

“ That should not trouble you. You will certainly visit 
the mountains again. You may spend many a happy day 
yet among these old gray rocks.- However, if we look into 
the future, we are sure to see more of pain and perplexity 
than of pleasure. I think we should learn to enjoy the 
present.” 

They chatted pleasantly together for a quarter of an hour 
on various topics. No one passed near them or interrupted 
their tete-a-tete, though they occasionally heard voices not 
far off, and now and then a ringing laugh. At length there 
was a pause in the conversation, lasting about a minute. 
Philip rather abruptly broke the silence. 

“ Mary,” said he, gravely. 

She almost started at the sound of his voice. In a single 
instant it told her all he was about to say. 

“ Mary,” he proceeded, “ but for this golden opportunity, 
and the enthusiasm and courage with which the surrounding 
beauties inspire me, I might ever have hesitated to tell you 
what I am resolved to tell you now.” 

“ What can that be ?” asked Mary, with but poorly-affected 
indifference. 

“ I compare so unfavorably with you,” said Philip, ^gazing 
admiringly on Mary’s averted face, “ that I still dread you 
will consider me presumptuous for so addressing you. But I 
must ; I cannot help it now ! I have even tried Co — in facr, 
I thought I would remain silent, but I cannot ! Oh, Mary ! 
Dear Mary!” — seizing her hand — “I love you!” — the hand 
was not withdrawn — “ I have loved you since I first met you 
at — at — your father’s!” — a kiss imprinted on the trembling 
hand. “Oh, think not unkindly of me! Forgive me for 
daring to hope, and tell me if I may continue to hope that 
my feelings may not be entirely disregarded ! Oh, could I, 
dare I hope that you would one day consent to be mine?” 


174 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


Mary did not reply in words, but her head, already bowed, 
reclined gently upon the shoulder of her father’s murderer. 

“ Oh, I have not offended you 1” exclaimed Philip. 

“ No,” replied Mary, without raising her head. “ I never 
thought — of- -of — but you have always been so hind to me, 
and now that my father is gone — ” And she burst into 
tears. 

It was enough. The deluded girl’s reply to her suitor, 
though brief, broken, and unfinished, was earnest and full 
of eloquence. Philip drew the pretty face closer to his, 
and imprinted a kiss upon the cheek which was wet with 
tears his crime had caused to flow. Ah, poisonous, treach- 
erous kiss! Ah, Mary! why did it not sting your cheek — 
that kiss from the murderer of your father 1 But you knew 
it not. You knew not the living embodiment of crime to 
whom your affections were plighted ! You saw only before 
you your lover ! 

Now, if there was one person, more than an ithei, who 
should not have witnessed this love scene, it was the one that 
did witness it — George Roland. He and i‘iat little minx, 
Kitty Hempstead, had gone about two hundred yards beyond 
and had halted to rest for a moment, when she exclaimed; 
“Oh, dear! I am so. thirsty! Won’t you run back to the 
spring at the White Rocks and get me a drink of water? 
Do ! that’s a dear good fellow ! You will find a tin-cup in 
my satchel.” And so there was nothing for George but to 
comply, while Kitty took a seat to await his return. It was 
an easy matter to go to the White Rocks, but it was a task 
that required the utmost care to walk several hundred yards 
up the steep mountain, over rough rocks and among intricate 
patches of bushes, carrying a cup of water. To have done 
60 without spilling any, would have been a prodigy. George 
was returning with the water, carefully and quietly jacking 
his way over the rocks, when, hearing voices a little to his 
right, he looked in the direction and saw the scene just 
described — saw, with an aching heart, his hated rival pas- 


PLEASURE AND PAIN. 


175 


gionately "kissing the only woman he loved, and she leaning 
confidingly upon his shoulder. Oh, the agony, the pain of 
heart, the cruel torture, the tearing and blighting of his most 
sacred affections, comprised in that one instant 1 

“Ah,” muttered George, moving carefully away, “I would 
not for the world have him know how he has pierced my 
heart. How he would exult ! Not in words, but how every 
look from his evi* eye would silently taunt me! Oh, curse 
him ! I do not believe he loves Mary ! He has sought and 
won her afifections for the sole purpose of inflicting pain on 
me. And oh, such pain 1 He knows I love her, and how I 
must sufler were I to see them united. But he shall see no 
cause to exult over me. No, though I should be present at 
the marriage ceremony, and see the life contract sealed with 
a kiss, I will smile while my bleeding heart aches beyond 
expression, and I will look so indifferent, nay, pleased, that 
he will not think it possible that I ever loved her, or that her 
choice gives me the least dissatisfaction, much less pain 1” 
George was still pale, and there was a strange light in his 
eye when he returned to where Kitty awaited him, having 
spilt three-fourths of the water with which he had started 
from the spring. 

“Why, what is the matter, George? You look pale I” ex- 
claimed Kitty. 

“ Oh, nothing,” he replied, seating himself. 

“ But something has happened ; what is it?** 

“ Nothing ; only I — I’m not well.’* 

“ And I sent you to the spring for water,” said Kitty, in a 
tone of self-reproach ; “ and you sick.** 

“ No, Kitty, I’m not sick,” he replied ; “ but — bub^I saw 
a snake.’* 

“ Surely that would not frighten yo thus ■ ’* 

“ But I was so nearly upon it beforv I sav it,’* sa’d Geoige; 
“it appeared so unexpectedly.** 

“ Did you kill it?” 

‘‘No.” 


176 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


“ Why did n’t you ?” 

“ Because it seemed so comfortable and happy that I had n’t 
the heart to. It was quietly feeding on a dove.” 

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Kitty, perceiving that the coloi 
was returning to his face. “ I do n’t believe you saw any 
snake at all. You are just teasing me. But are you sick?” 

“ No, I am not. Think no more of it. Why do you not 
drink the water I brought? It will get warm if you keep it 
much longer. There is no great quantity of it; I spilled it 
nearly all coming up.” 

“ There is enough, more than I want. Will you drink 
some of it?” 

“ No, you drink it,” 

Kitty drank about half the water, then handed the cup to 
George, saying : — 

“ There, I do not want any more ; drink the remainder or 
I will throw it out.” 

“ A pity it should be wasted,” said George, with assumed 
indifference. And he took the cup and eagerly drained it. 

From that time he resolved to drive from his mind, if pos- 
sible, the scene which he had witnessed, and in the genial 
society of his sprightly little companion he soon recovered 
his habitual good spirits. 

It was nearly four o’clock when all had returned from their 
rambling and assembled upon the White Eocks. The sky 
was still as clear, and the mountain atmosphere as pleasant, 
as in the morning. Before departing, one of the party, 
addressing the others collectively, spoke to the following 
cfffect : — 

“Neighbors, we have spent the day most pleasantly in this 
beautiful region. I am sure there is not one of us who does 
not feel better and happier in consequence of the day’s recrea- 
tion. Now, I propose that we make up our minds to visit 
the mountain again when the huckleberries are ripe, which 
will be in six or eight weeks at ^he furthest. I would sug^ 


NED AS A FARMER. 177 

gest that we then visit the vicinity of Delany’s Cave, where 
the bushes grow in abundance. What say you all?” 

“ I agree,” responded several. 

“ And I,” “ And I,” went round. 

** Then,” continued the speaker, “ shall it be understood 
that we visit the mountain when the berries are ripe ?” 

“ Yes,” Yes,” ** Yes,” was answered from all sides. 

** Unanimous! We can arrange the day when the season 
approaches. Till then, with three cheers for the White 
Rocks, let us adjourn.” 

The cheers were given in a merry humor, and the party 
proceeded to their horses and rode down the mountain. 
When they reached Ira Tate’s, Mary and Tilly, in the midst 
of numerous injunctions not to forget the berry-excursion, 
bade the others good-by. Lastly, Philip Kirke and Ned 
Stanton took leave of the cousins, and, with the party, rode 
briskly toward Weston, 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

NED AS A FARMER. 

One evening toward the close of June, half-a-dozen far- 
mers were assembled in Mr. Duffey’s store. George Roland 
and Will Hempstead were among them. John Duffey was 
also present. 

“ Do you know,” observed a young farmer of the name of 
Wilson, “that Ned Stanton is getting to be a much more 
steady fellow than he used to be?’* 

“.He don’t drink so much as of old,” said another, whose 
name was Franks. 

12 


178 


THE WHITE BOOKS. 


** He has put in a large field of corn on his father’s place— 
the thirty-acre field by the road — and I believe he has under- 
taken to cultivate it himself.” 

“ That is why he do n’t come to town so frequently now,” 
said John. “When he finishes his day’s labors I suppose he 
feels like resting. Oh, I know it sets hard with him to settle 
down to hard labor.” 

“ What can be the cause of his sudden change of demeanor ?” 
wondered George Roland. 

“I cannot imagine,” responded John, “ unless, indeed, it 
was the scare he got in the graveyard last fall. There was 
•omething strange in that afiair.” 

“ Pshaw !” returned George. “ I have heard about that, 
and X believe it was all a well-played trick.” 

“ Trick ! .A good one, then, for it frightened some more 
of us besides Ned, and would probably have frightened us as 
much had we been where he was. Ask Tony Baily, or Dick 
Miller, or Will Hempstead there. We were all in the road 
at the time, watching Ned ; and even there, when we saw a 
white figure suddenly arise out of the very earth, and as sud- 
denly disappear, it made the hair of our heads stand on end. 
I really expected to find mine gray next morning.” 

“I do not accuse you,” replied George, “of playing the 
trick, or even of instigating it, although I swear it was just 
like one of your’s. There is sufficient evidence to clear you of 
the crime, or at least to establish the fact that you were not 
in the graveyard wrapped in a sheet, or anything of that 
sort.” 

“Yes,” said John, “Tony, Will, or Dick (if he can be in- 
duced to speak) will testify that I was in the road with them. 
thus establishing an alibi, as the lawyers call it. But I 
wonder if we really may attribute Ned’s improvement to that 
night’s influences?” 

“ I’ve seen him drunk since that,” suggested Will. 

“ Oh, so have I, several times,” replied John; “ but not so 
frequently, by half, as of yore.” 


NED AS A FARMER. 


179 


**T think,” observed a grave young man, who sat on an 
inverted nail-keg, that Ned is going to get married; and 
that may have something to do with his change.” 

“To whom?’ asked one. 

“ Tilly Ta»:e. He has been mighty attentive to her for 
some time, and I’ll bet my hat ’twill make a match.” 

“ Would he have her, think you ?” queried Wilson, merely 
for information. 

“ Would she have him proposed Franks, by way of im- 
parting another feature to the case. 

“ I think they ’re well matched,” returned he of the empty 
nail-keg. “On what grounds would he object to her?” 

“ On the grounds of her being a little too old for him, I 
suppose,” hazarded Wilson. 

“ And I think she would eonsider him too rowdy for her, 
probably,” ventured Franks. 

“So, they will no doubt call it square, and wed,” argued 
the nail-keg gentleman. 

“How does he prosper under his new habits?” asked 
George Roland. 

“Well enough,” replied I>uffey, “only that he retains ont 
bad habit, which he never will get rid of.” 

“ What is that?” asked several. 

“ Talkativeness I” replied John. “ Dear me, let any one bui 
pass along the road near the field in which Ned is at work, 
and he’ll be hailed, and stopped, and talked at, till he is ready 
to faint. Only yesterday I rode by, and although I was in a 
hurry, he stopped me, dropped his plough, came and perched 
himself on the fence, and commenced 1 Then, how he talked i 
How his tongue worked for a while ! He told me hundreds of 
things of which I had never heard before ; and it was fully 
an hour and a half before there was the slightest breach in 
the thread of his conversation. At last, watching for an 
opportunity to escape, I perceived that he was about to break 
off for a second to inhale a good long breath ; and the instant 
he paused, while his chest was past expanding with an im* 


180 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


aiense supply of air to be discharged at me in the shape of 
words, I ioolv, I confess, a cowardly advantage of him, and 
almost yelled out, ‘Yes, excictly — I’ll see you again — good- 
day!’ and off I went like a bullet.” 

“From an air-gun,” suggested nail-keg. 

“ Is ho going through his field the first time ?” asked 
George. 

“ No, he told me he had been over it once before. How 
he ever got entirely over that big field, is a mystery to me. 
There could not have been many passers by while he was at 
work, or it would have taken him all summer.” 

“And is he now going through the second time?” 

“ Yes, he has only commenced within a day or two to work 
it with a shovel-plough. I think, for his own good, we ought 
to give him a lesson.” 

“ How should we?” asked Wilson. 

“I have a plan,” returned John. “I propose that five or 
six of us take a holiday to-morrow, and pass along the road at 
regular intervals, each stopping a couple of hours with Ned, 
thus occupying the whole day nicely. Y/hen night comes, 
and he finds that he has spent the day in gossiping, and got 
no work done, it may cause him to reflect seriously.” 

“ And the end of his reflections,” suggested the grave young 
man on the nail-keg, “ may be that he will lick every one of 
us in detail, for tricking him.” 

“ Oh, he will not suspect us,” said John. “ Let each one 
go on horse-back, and say that we are going to Morgantown, 
or some other place up the river.” 

Morgantown, then a small village, is now a flourishing town 
of several thousand inhabitants. It is situated on the Monon- 
gahela river, in Western Virginia, only a few miles from the 
Pennsylvania line. 

“ It would at least be a good joke,” said Will Hempsteaa; 
“ and I, for one, am in for it.” 

“ I will act my part,” said George Eoland. 

Several others consented, a dark plan was concocted, and, 


NED AS A FARMER. 


181 


wiih the understanding that all should assemble at Tony’s 
on the following evening and compare notes, the party ad' 
journed. 

A little after seven o’clock next morning,^ Ned Stanton 
started for his cornfield, under the most auspicious circum- 
Btances. The birds were singing cheerfully in the woods near 
by, the young blades of corn were moist with dew, the morn- 
ing was bright and clear, and the day promised to be one of 
the most glorious of the summer, though, perhaps, a little 
warmer than necessary. 

“Ned,” said Mr. Stanton, who was about to depart for a 
field on another part of the farm, “ you should try to do a 
good day’s w^ork on your corn to-day, if you expect it to come 
to anything. I think you spent half your time yesterday, 
talking with passers-by. A foolish habit, Ned.” 

I couldn’t help it, father,” replied Ned, who regarded his 
pire with the greatest veneration ; “ the men who passed yes- 
terday were such talkative fellows that I couldn’t get away 
from them, especially young Duffey.” 

“ But don’t let them stop you. When they come along, 
just say ‘ good-day,’ and drive into a new’ row, and I am sure 
the traveler will not stand in the road, and wait till you return 
from the other side of the field. I fear much of it is your ow‘n 
fault, Ned,” said Mr. Stanton, good-humoredly. 

“ Come now, father,” retorted the son, “you know 1 am one 
of the quietest fellows in .” 

“ Yes, I know all about that,” interrupted the father, laugh- 
ing; “I truly believe you would not speak a hundred words 
in a year, if you had no one to talk to.” 

“I think I would die then,” muttered Ned, as he started 
for the cornfield. 

Mr. Stanton, who was still a strong and vigorous man, 
departed for the scene of his labors. 

“ About one-fourth done,” soliloquized Ned, as he reached 
the spot at which he had left off the previous day. “ Now 
if I work at all industriously, I w>ill finish in five or six days. 


182 


THE WHITE BOOKS. 


Well, I’m going at it, and confound if I don’t do some tall 
work. I’ll plough a hundred and fifty rows to-day. or my 
hoise gives out. No danger of that though. Woa, whaw, 
get up !” And Ned commenced his day’s labors, with the 
very best intention. 

Following the straight rows of corn which ran at right 
angles with the roa<l, he had traversed the width of the field 
four times, and was just departing from the public road on 
another trip, when who should ride along but John DufFey. 

“Hilloa, DufFey! how do you do?” exclaimed Ned, drop- 
ping the handle of his plough, and going to the fence. “ Fine 
morning! What’s the news? Where are you traveling to, 
BO early ?” 

“ I am going to Morgantown,” John calmly replied. 

** Coming back to-day?” 

I scarcely know. If I make good time, I will ; if not, I 
will return to-morrow.” 

“ Nothing new in town, is there? I hav n’t been there since 
night before last.” 

“Nothing particular,” was the reply. 

“ Not much talk of a war with England?” 

“No, that talk seems to have died away; though I am 
inclined to think it will be revived again.” , 

“Do you think so? Well, by ginger,” exclaimed Ned, 
patriotically, “ we licked England twenty-five or thirty years 
ago, and we can do it again ! My daddy helped to do it then, 
and I'll help now ! Let the British come as soon as they 
please ! I’ll go and enlist, if it’s to-morrow ! Don’t care if I 
hear of it now,” said Ned, warming up, “ I’d drop my plough, 
I’d leave my horse stand in the furrow, as the farmers did 
when they heard of the battle of Lexington; I would n’t take 
time to take the gears ofif! I’d take up my rifle and be ofif! 
I’d go to Weston, and from there to Pittsburg with the first 
crowd of one, two, three, a dozen, or a hundred, that would 
go; and I would join the first regiment organized. Death to 
the red-coats! I can lick a dozen of ’em myself, any way they 


KED AS A FAEMER. 


183 


want to figlit. Jolm Bull be darned 1 This Nation licked 
him when an infant : now we’re a man ! Let him come with 
his regiments of musketeers, and his showy cavalcades ! Let 
him come with his fleets! We’ll give him — oh, I say, Duffey, 
I’m sure I’d like a soldier’s life, wouldn’t you? My venerable 
parent served in the Ke volution, and he could tell some great 
things about it if he would. But, dear me, it is hard to get 
him started! He don’t seem to take any pride or pleasure in 
relating his experience. He don’t take after me in that 
respect. I think if I were once a soldier, I’d give my children, 
grand-children, great- grand-children, and friends, and ac- 
quaintances, generally, a most glowing account of what I had 
seen and what I had done, and of the million hair-breadth 
escapes — your father served in the war, too, didn’t he? Does 
he ever tell you anything about it? or is he like the old man 
in that respect? Strange — ” 

“ Never says much about it.” 

“ — about these old soldiers — how little they care about 
telling of the deeds of fame they have seen and done. As I 
said before, to tell the truth about the matter — ” and thus 
Ned went on for nearly two hours, when John, feeling that 
time was about up, adroitly gave him the slip. 

“ Gee, woa, get up!” said Ned, seizing the neglected plough- 
handles, and the single line with which he guided the horse. 

A good fellow, that Duffey,” he muttered, as the clumsy 
plough went digging, and dragging, and jerking along, tearing 
up the loose soil and throwing it about the young stalks of 
corn. 

In due time he had crossed and re-crossed the large field ; 
and just as he reached the road once more, George Boland 
rode leisurely along. 

“Hilloa, Boland! How are you?” exclaimed Ned, again 
suspending his work. 

“ Why, good morning, Ned,” responded George, drawing 
up his horse opposite ; “ I came near not seeing you)’* 

** Ti’aveling to-day?” asked Ned* 


THE WHITE HOCKS. 


i84 

Yos, I am on my way to Morgantown.” 

“To Morgantown I John Dulfey went there to-day!” 

“ Yes, I learned last night that he intended to go, and I 
went to Weston, thinking to join him in his journey, hut Was 
too late. If I had known he had already gone, I should have 
taken the other road, which would have been nearer for me 
than going by the village.” 

“Do you expect to come back to-day?” Ned asked. 

“ I scarcely think I will. Plowever, I shall meet DufFey 
there, and if he returns to-day I will. 

“Morgantown is a rough place,” began Ned, settling him- 
self into a comfortable position against the fence ; “ so, mind 
yourself while there. I got into a most confounded scrape 
there once, and only escaped with my life by fighting my way 
out. You see, some of their rowdy fellows there, knowing 
that I was alone, thought it would be very nice to raise a 
quarrel with me and give me a sound thrashing ; and so, while 
I was sitting quietly in the tavern, waiting for dinner, not 
saying a word to any body, and looking as pleasant as I could, 
in comes a big fellow of the crowd, first of all — ” Jnd^Ned 
proceeded to relate his thrilling Morgantown adventure, in all 
its details; occupying fully an hour. 

When he had concluded, George might have made his 
escape, as Ned seemed at a momentary loss for a new subject; 
but feeling that he had not quite fulfilled his share of the 
j)lot, he assisted his loquacious friend to a new topic, by re- 
marking: 

“There is some talk that you are going to get married, 
Ned.” 

“Who told you that?” asked Ned. 

“Everybody thinks so,” replied George. 

“ Who do they say is to be Mrs. Stanton ?” 

“Oh, yoxi know.” 

“ No I do n’t, v/ho is it?” 

“ Why, Miss Tilly Tate. Come, now, there’s no use denying 

it.'* 


NED AS A FARMER. 


185 


'“'vVell, now, I — I — stuttered Ned, with well-assumed 
confusion, nobody’s sure of that.” 

" You know you have been very attentive to her of late,*' 
suggested George. At thfe White Rocks, for instance — ” 

“ Had a nice time that day,” interrupted Ned, now fairly 
started again, “glorious! Everything passed off smoothly — 
-delightfully 1 By the way, Kitty Hempstead is a pretty 
girl, I think, and I rather think you think so, too, of late. 
Talk about weddings. You’ll be married first yet, mind if 
you don’t. Kitty is a nice girl, and just as pretty as Molly 
White, whom, they say, Phil Kirke cut you out of — ” 

George affected to laugh. 

“ — but I don’t believe you ever tried to cut in there. 
Pretty girl, though, is Molly. Had a heap of trouble lately 
— lost her father in such a mysterious way. There was 
eomething strange about the murder of Henry White — if he 
was murdered, which no doubt he was. It is my opinion, in 
regard to that circumstance, and always was, that, taking 
everything into consideration — ” and Ned proceeded to give 
George the full benefit of his opinion, and had just concluded, 
when the sound of the horn at the farm-house summoned him 
to dinner. 

“ Well, I must ride on,” said George. 

“Won’t you come in to dinner?” Ned asked. 

“ No, thank you ; I want to reach Morgantown before 
Duffey starts back. . I fear I have kept you from your 
work.” 

“Oh, not at all. I have not done a great deal this fore- 
noon, it is true, but I’ll make up for it after dinner.” 

“ Good-day.” 

“ Good-by, and a safe journey.** 

Ned detached his horse from the plough, and led it toward 
the farm-house, while George rode on half-a-mile when he 
came to a by-road that led across to the other parallel public 
road, and, as John Duffey had done more two hqur^ 


186 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


earlier, he turned ihto it with a view to reaching home as 
soon as possible. 

After dinner Ned returned to the field. 

“ I declare, I did n’t get mrt^h done this forenoon, ** he 
soliloquized, as he resumed his work. “ Very well, I’ll make 
up for it this afternoon ; and if the old man should walk out 
in this direction after supper, he won’t know hut I have been 
working most faithfully the whole day. Glad he didn’t 
question me at dinner. Woa — gee, g’lang! you old rascal!” 
exclaimed Ned, addressing the horse. ** Do you want to 
tramp all the corn down? Why don’t you keep straight 
ahead, and not waddle about in that way?” 

The animal did not reply to these queries, but meekly 
woa-geed ” and “ g’langed ” as directed. 

Ned had made half-a-dozen of his agricultural excursi(*na 
since dinner, and the great beads of sweat which began to 
traverse his face attested the earnestness with which he had 
commenced his afternoon’s labors, when he descried Will 
Hempstead approaching on horseback, and thought it would 
be no more than polite to wait till he should come up, and at 
least bid him the time of day. 

“ How do you do, Will?” was Ned’s greeting, as his neigh- 
bor rode up. “ You ’re on the wrong road, ain’t you ?” 

“ Why, no,” replied Will ; “ the fact is, I am going to Mor- 
gantown, and having a little business in the village — ” 

“Where?” asked Ned. “Where did you say you wcr^ 
going?" 

“ To Morgantown,” returned Will, innocently. 

“ To Morgantown ?” 

“Yes, and I came through Weston because I had a little 
business to transact there first.” 

Ned was silent for a moment — a thing unusual with him 
when he had any one to talk to ; then, in a sob«r, thoughtful 
voice, asked : — 

“ Is there anything particular going on at Morgantown to- 

day ?” 


NED AS A FARMER. 


187 


“ Nob that I am aware of,*’ was the reply. ** Why do you 
ask?” 

‘‘Nothing; only John DufFey and George Roland both 
went by this forenoon, on their way to Morgantown.” 

“ Is it possible? Now, had I known they were going, I 
might have had company. They went together, of course?” 

“ No, John went an hour or two earlier.” 

To attempt to describe the conversation that followed 
would be futile. Suffice it to say, that Will found no diffi- 
culty in passing a couple of hours with his talkative neighbor. 
After which he rode on, and, like his predecessors, took early 
measures to return home. 

“ Blazes ! have n’t I been fooling the time away !” muttered 
Ned, after he had gone.” It must be after two o’clock, and 
not a dozen rows ploughed the whole day. Well, I must gc 
and get a drink of water, and go to work in earnest. Awful 
hot to-day — makes a fellow thirsty.” And leaving his horse 
and plough' stand, he proceeded to the spring and slaked his 
thirst. 

He had barely returned to his plough, when young Wilson 
came riding along. 

“ How are you ? Which way are you traveling ?** asked 
Ned, as Wilson stopped. 

“ I’m going to Morgantown,” was Wilson’s calm reply. 

“Where?” asked Ned, amazed. 

“ To Morgantown,” was the cool reply. 

Ned stared in astonishment. 

“What’s the matter?” asked Wilson. 

“ Did I understand you to say you were going to Morgan* 
asked Ned, in a distinct tone. 

“Yes. Why?” 

“You say you are actually going to Moi gantown ?” re- 
peated Ned, with awful deliberation. 

“Yes, what of that? I know it is rather late in the day 
to be starting, but I will not return till to-morrow.” 

“ Why — why — a — ah — ” stuttered Ned, with scarce imagi* 


188 


THE WHITE ROClCS. 


ration to give shape, or words to give utterance, to his aston- 
ishment, “ why — I — this — is — this is very; — beats the deuse T* 

** What beats the deuse?” 

“ You are the Jourih man from near Weetonwho has passed 
hn'e io-day, going to Morgantown /” 

“ Is it possible? Who in the name — 

** John Duffey, George Roland, and Will Hempstead.” 

Wilson was astonished. “ What in the world — ” 

“Are you sure nothing is going on there to-day?” asked 
Ned; “a big meeting, a raising, a shooting-match, a dog- 
fight, a — ” 

“ Nothing at all, that I know of.” 

It was after four o’clock when Wilson rode on, and ten 
minutes later his place, as Ned’s audience, was promptly 
occupied by Franks, who, to Ned’s unutterable amazement, 
complacently represented himself as en route for Morgantown ! 
In answer to Ned’s broken ejaculations and half-expressed 
queries, he stated that he knew it was late ; that he would 
not, of course, return till next day ; that he did not know of 
pvnything going on at Morgantown; was simply going on 
business ; was not aware that four others had gone before 
him with the same destination in view. He admitted that it 
was very remarkable, etc. 

When, after a long conversation, he at length took his 
leave, it was supper-time, and poor Ned in despair gave up 
work for the day, resolved to go to the village that evening 
and drown the memory of his disgraceful negligence in the 
enticing bowl. 

That evening, the five young men who had made it their 
business to teach Ned Stanton a useful lesson, assembled, 
according to agreement, in Tony Baily’s bar-room, and each 
gave a brief sketch of his day’s proceedings. They enjoyed 
several hearty laughs in the course of the different recitals, 
especially at the idea of what Ned must certainly regard as 
the most remarkable series of coincidences that ever came so 
directly under his own observation — that of all happening to 


NED AS A FAHMEE. 


189 


visit ^lorgantown on the one day, each without the know- 
ledge of any other. 

Now,” said George Koland, ** I propose that we devote 
another day to Ned, but in a different way/* 

“ What do you propose ?” asked Duffey. 

“ That we each, to-morrow if it is convenient, take a horse 
and plough, and give Ned a lift in his work. Such a pro- 
ceeding, following ui^on that of the past day, will not only 
tend to imprCtf-f more deeply upon his mind the lesson we 
have humbly endeavored to teach him, but will also serve to 
remove any ill-will he may bear us, should he find us out. 
What say you all?” 

All agreed to join George in carrying out this really noble 
scheme, and it was just arranged that all should meet in 
Weston early on the following morning, with a view to pro- 
ceeding en masse to Stanton’s farm, when Ned entered. 

To picture the consternation of the plotters would be the 
woi-k of the liveliest imagination and the most fertile brain, 
Ned stood in the doorway for a moment, looking the personi- 
fication of perplexity and astonishment, evidently wondering 
by what unknown route or unaccountable locomotion the 
young men had so soon returned from Morgantown, while, 
they, on their part, almost shrank within themselves with 
chagrin. At length Ned found words to exclaim : — 

“ Is it possible that I have made a mistake and gone to 
Morgantown, instead of to Weston? or am I mad or drunk? 
or, in fact, have I ever been sober?” 

A loud laugh followed. 

“ Or,” shuddered Ned, as a new and terrible idea thrust 
itself upon him, “ am I dead and in that terrible place where 
the preacher once told me the demons, would laugh at my 
nnfortunate selection of a dwelling-place?” 

Another laugh greeted his bewildered senses, such a loud 
and seemingly unearthly laugh that his worst fears were 
almost confirmed. A happy argument, however, came to hia 
relief. 


190 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


“No Fm not!*’ he exclaimed joyfully. “It can’t he 
Did n’t the same preacher say that there were no pleasure 
there? and lo, the first thing I see is my old favorite! 
Hurrah 1 Hand him down, Tony,” he concluded, pointing 
to a large black bottle, containing the best old rye. 

Tony seized the solemn-looking old bottle, and set it on the 
counter. 

Come and take a drink, boys, all of you,” said Ned. “ I 
Bee it all now. Good trick, wasn’t it. I was fairly taken 
down, I acknowledge.” 

“ Ned, forgive us,” said DufFey. “ It was I who proposed 
to play this trick on you, but it was more to render you a 
service than for the fun of it. We hoped that it would 
enable you to see the folly of spending so much time talking 
with passers-by.” 

“No harm,” responded Ned, so good-humoredly that all 
regretted the day’s proceedings. “ It served me right. 
Come, take a drink.” 

All drank to Ned’s better luck, and after spending half an 
hour in the bar-room more quietly than he had ever before 
done, he took his leave. 

“Will you work at your corn to-morrow, Ned?” asked 
Duffey, as he stepped from the door. 

“ Yes, and I’ll do a day’s work,” was Ned’s reply. “ You’ll 
not trick me to-morrow.” 

“ Yes we will,” said Duffey ; “ see if we do n’t.” 

“ I’ll be on the watch for you hereafter.” 

Next morning, as Ned was about to depart for his cornfield, 
with renewed resolutions to be diligent, he was somewhat 
astonished at seeing five young men, each with horse and 
shovel-plough, enter the farm-yard gate. 

“ Only come to play that other trick, Ned ; it is one of 
Roland’s concocting,” explained Duffey. 

And they did play it well. All worked steadily in Ned’s 
cornfield that day, and when evening came the whole task 
was done — the field completely canvassed. 


THE EATTLESNAKB. 


191 


“Well, boys,” observed Ned, when the last row was 
ploughed, “ this is the best trick yet, and I’ll never forget 
you for it. 1 did feel a little like walking into you last 
night -at Tony’s, as I first realized how you had fooled me, 
but I am glad I did n’t now. For what you have done, both 
yesterday and to-day, I thank you. The lesson you have 
taught me shall not be lost. Hereafter I will drink and talk 
less, and work more. I do not say I will stop drinking and 
talking — that would be impossible ; but what I do in that 
way shall be in season. There’s a time for everything.” 

The young men returned to their homes that evening, 
feeling that satisfaction and happiness which only those can 
feel who have acted a noble and disinterested part. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE EATTLESNAKB. 

On a sultry day in August a number of young folks from 
the Weston settlement were gathered upon the mountain not 
far from Delany’s Cave, where the whortleberries grew in all 
the luxuriance of their wild nature. The sun had almost 
reached the zenith, and his rays came down so hot as almost 
to scorch the earth. On the mountain it was more pleasant 
than in the settlement, but even there scarce a breath of air 
was stirring, and the leaves hung languidly upon the trees, 
as though about to wither and fade before their time. 

Each one of the party had a small basket or other vessel, 
to be filled with berries ere they should resort to the cave. 
A plot of several acres, on which the mountain fruit grew 


192 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


thickebt, was selected as the field of operations, and all 
entered earnevStly upon the work of picking berries. 

Suddenly a loud shrill scream startled the scattering party, 
and all turning quickly in the direction of the sound, saw 
Miss Matilda Tate drop her basket, spring back, and scram 
ble away toward the nearest high rock with rather more of 
swiftness and frantic energy than feminine grace. To add to 
the general interest of the picture, her bonnet fell off, hei 
hair came down and streamed wildly after her, and her face 
was pale with mortal fear. She soon reached a flat rock, 
which arose a few feet above the tops of the bushes, and 
springing upon it with the quickness of a squirrel, she threw 
herself into a reclining position, and made a desperate at- 
tempt to faint — but could n’t. 

“ What’s the matter? What is it? What has happened ?’* 
exclaimed a score of her companions, gathering around her. 

“ A — a — a sn — n — n — ake 1” replied Tilly, too poorly sup- 
plied with breath to say it all at once. 

*• Where?” was asked. 

“Among — the — bushes — up there. I came near — near 
stepping on it. 0 ! 0 !” shuddered Tilly. 

Leaving the terrified Tilly ia the care of her female com- 
panions, nearly all the young men cautiously approached ihe 
spot from which she had so precipitately retreated. When 
they reached the basket which she had dropped (by which 
operation she had spilt just three pints of berries) they knew 
that the reptile, if she had really seen -one, could not be far 
ofif; and they proceeded with renewed deliberahoa and care, 
peering among the bushes, here and there thrusting them 
aside with sticks, and, in fact, inspecting every square inch 
of ground before daring to tread upon it. 

“Whoever finds it,” said Ned Stanton, “iev him not kil] 
it ; leave it to me. Fll show you how to dispose of or^' of 
these creatures in a civilized and scientific manner.** 

“ How is that?’* asked George Eoland, 

“ Why, simply — ** 


THE EATTLESNAKE. 


193 


“ There it is !” suddenly exclaimed Philip Kirhe, springing 
back upon the toes of a timid young man who was following 
in his tracks. 

‘‘Where? Show it to me?” said Ned, at his side in a 
moment. 

“ There,” replied Philip, pointing to a large rattlesnake 
that lay coiled up among the bushes, so perfectly at his ease 
that he must have imagined himself the owmer of at least 
half the mountains. 

“An old residenterl ** exclaimed Ned, in admiration. 
“Now I’ll venture that fellow has half a pint of rattles on 
his tail — so many he can’t count ’em, and do n’t know liis 
own age 1 I’m confident he is the great-grandfather of one 
I killed near this spot about four years ago. I see an unmis- 
takable family resemblance.” 

“ He do n’t seem much alarmed,” observed Philip. 

“ Oh, no ! He comes of a noble race of serpents, and do n't 
know what fear is. You can never make me believe that 
any of his antecedents had anything to do with that treach- 
erous apple transaction. I do not doubt that it was a snake, 
but it was no rattlesnake ; it must have been a 5/ac^-snake— 
or — or,” said Ned, as a bright idea struck him, “a contempti- 
ble im^er-snake.” 

“ How do you propose to kill him?” queried Philip. 

“ I’ll show you,’' replied Ned, with the confident self-reli- 
ance of a skillful magician. 

He then drew forth a large pocket-knife, which he always 
carried, and cut from an adjacent bush a forked stick ^hree 
feet long, the prongs of which he cut to the length of about 
one inch, all the time keeping his eyes on the intended 
victim. With that instrument in his hand he fearlessly ap- 
proached his snakeship, until he stood within his immediate 
presence, and a savage “hiss ” warned him not to come 
nearer. 

“Be careful, Ned,” cautioned George Poland; “you are 
near enough for him to strike you now,” 


194 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


“ No fear of tliat,” replied Ne*d. He knows letter. No 
one ever struck me yet without getting the worst of it.” 

Come, Ned,” urged another, “ no fooling about it. Stand 
back and let us kill it with clubs.” 

“Never mind,” persisted Ned; “this isn’t the first I’ve 
executed in my way. Now just be quiet, and you’ll see a bil 
of fun. I say, old snakey,” he went on, addressing himself 
to the serpent, at the same time slowly thrusting the fork of 
the stick near its head, “ you have violated the laws of this 
community by coming out of your den when there are white 
folks present, and even frightening one of our fair young 
ladies; now, the penalty for every such offence is death — 
death at the hands of the headsman, and the headsman is 
myself. Have you anything to say ?” 

“ Hiss ! Hiss ! Hiss-s-s-s-s-s !” came from the quivering tail 
of the monster, as he slowly uncoiled his long form, and 
began to rear his horrid head for a spring. 

“ No you do n’t !” exclaimed Ned ; and, quick as thought, 
he thrust the fork over the reptile’s neck, crushed it down, 
and held the head firmly to the earth. 

In vain Mr. Snake endeavored to extricate himself fiom this 
embarrassing situation. He writhed, and twisted, and curled, 
and slapped about, making the rattles on his tail fairly buz, 
but all to no purpose. 

“ Why do n’t you stamp his head at once and finish him?” 
asked several. 

“ That’s not my mode,” replied Ned, deliberately grasping 
the serpent’s tail with his right hand, while he still firmly 
held the stick with his left. “ Now stand back, every one of 
you, so that the head wont hit you, for I am going to snap it 
off and send it flying, I tell you.” 

“ Why Ned, you fool,” remonstrated George Roland, “ is 
that what you are going to do ? Do n’t try it, for your life, 
with that big snake;” and he was about to rush up and crush 
the reptile’s head beneath his boot-heel, to prevent the reck- 
less fellow from uselessly hazarding his life. 


THE EATTLESNAKE. 


195 


But at that moment Ned cried out: 

Stand back ! Here goes 1 One ! two ! theee !” 

All shrank back in horror as the heedless fellow suddenly 
released the serpent’s neck, still retaining his grasp upon the 
tail, and began to whirl it round and round above his head. 
This he continued for a few seconds, then gave it a flourish 
an 1 counter-flourish, by way of bringing aflairs to a crisis. 

the serpent did not prove to be quite so flexible as a 
whiplash ; and making a desperate eflbrt to strike once more 
ere it should lose its head, it succeeded, as much by chance 
as otherwise, in fastening its fangs in the back of Ned’s hand. 
With a quick cry of pain he relinquished his grasp upon its 
tail, knocked it from his hand, staggered away a few steps, 
and fell almost insensible to the ground. liis companions, 
seeing what was done, rushed hastily up, with a mutual ex- 
clan).ation of horror, stamped the serpent to death, and gath- 
ered round their unfortunate comrade. 

“Mercy ! what on earth is to be done?” exclaimed several, 
perceiving that Ned was pale as death, and that his hand 
was beginning to swell and turn black. 

“ Oh, what can we do?” echoed several others, in the 
agonizing consciousness of being able to do nothing. 

“ Eun for the doctor !” screamed one. 

“ Impossible 1 He lives at least six miles distant I” 

“let us put him on a horse, and move him down the 
acuntain, while some one on a swift horse rides forward and 
instructs the doctor to meet us,” said George Eoland, and 
several ran away for the purpose of bringing some of the 
horses. 

At this interesting moment the girls, comprehending what 
had happened, rushed to the spot, and fell to screaming and 
crying and fainting ; and the scene became one of the liveliest 
confusion, intermingled with consternation and horror. As 
is usual in such cases, all gathered closely around, in order 
to prevent any fresh air from finding its way to the sufierer, 
and thus to lessen the chances of his recovery. 


136 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


Suddenly a wild-looking, witliered, old woman, cl thed in 
faded rags,* appeared upon the scene, and rushed into the 
midst of the confused crowd, shouting : 

** Stand aside, ye fools. What would become o’ that man 
if I was n’t hur. Ha! ha! Molly’s never fu/ olf when she’s 
wanted — for all she’s a wicked old creature !” and thrusting 
aside all who stood in her way, she quickly arrived at the 
spot where Ned lay, threw herself upon the ground beside 
him, seized his poisoned hand, pressed the lacerated j:''>rt to 
her mouth for a few seconds, then spat out a mouthful of 
blackened blood. 

“ She’s sucking the poison out,” exclaimed one. 

“ Yes, and none of us thought of that,” replied another. 
** That will save him.” 

The old woman, who was no other than Molly Pry, the 
fortune-teller of the mountain, again applied her lips to the 
wounded hand, and again spat out the poison which she 
drew from it. This she repeated many times, and Ned soon 
revived. Still she continued her strange treatment of the 
wound, until it was evident that the poison was all drawn 
out. 

“ The p’ison can’t hurt me,” said Molly. “ There aint a 
tooth in me head, nor has been for ten years. Where they 
once growed is all healed over an’ covered with the gums, so 
there is no place for p’ison to git to my blood, if I only spit it 
out, an’ Molly’s got sense enough for that.” 

Ned presently arose to a sitting posture, and looked coolly 
around him. The color was returning to his face, his hand 
was not so black or swollen as a few minutes before, and it 
was now pretty clear that the poison had not had time to 
circulate to any extent before it was extracted by the crazy 
oid fortune-teller, and that his wound could not prove seri- 
ous. He was obviously about to speak, and all listened 
eagerly to what he might have to say. It was the prevailing 
opinion that he would ask whether there was any hope, or 
that he would beg for a little water, or ask where he wa« 


THE BATTLESKAKE. 


197 


and what had happened; and some even expected him to 
express his views as to what disposition should he made of 
his property after death, or to make known whether he had 
any preference as to the time and place of his burial. For 
a moment his eyes wandered about as though lookii:;3 for 
something among the bushes, then he calmly asked : 

Where’s the snake ?” 

“What?” asked nearly all the party at once, unable to 
persuade themselves that they had heard aright. 

“Where is that rattlesnake?” Ned repeated, distinctly. 

“ There it lies, dead as a door-nail,” one had the presence 
of mind to reply. 

“What! you havn’t killed it?” demanded Ned, indig- 
nantly. 

“ Yes, certainly. Why should n’t we ?” replied one, and 
all now began to lean to the opinion that Ned was in a 
delirium, 

“ Why,” exclaimed Ned, “ I did n’t quite finish my opera- 
tion. You didn’t see the best part of it. However, it’ll do 
yet.” And he deliberately arose to his feet, though trem' 
bling slightly from temporary weakness, took the lifeless 
reptile by the tail, whirled it around a moment, then giving 
it that adverse flourish by which a whip is made to crack, 
sent its head flying away twenty or thirty feet among the 
bushes. 

“Why, I declare!” exclaimed seveial, “he don’t mind it 
a bit !” 

“ No,” responded Ned ; “ if any diflerence I feel the better 
of it.” 

All stood for a moment staring at Ned, and regarding him 
as a living wonder, while one exclaimed : 

“ Why, what kind of a fellow are you ? ’ 

“ A snake-doctor,” retorted Ned. “ I’ve dissected more of 
’em than I have fingers and toes. I know every bone in 
their body. I caii tell their age by their teeth ; where they 
live by the color of their eyes, and how many of ’em there 


198 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


are in the family by the length of their tongues. But say, 
my good old woman,” Ned went on, addressing Molly, 
** you ’ye done a good turn for me, now what can I do to 
reward you ?” 

“Nothing,” replied the fortune-teller; “only let snakes 
alone after this. Do n’t fool with ’em that way any more 
They ’re dangerous, an’ old Molly may not alius be near to 
save you. Molly is n’t so bad as people says she is. They 
call her a devil. Would a devil save a man’s life? They 
say Molly never forgives a wTong ; w^ell, neither does she 
even forgit a kindness. You did n’t think I know^ed you, 
Edw^ard Stanton, did you ? But I do. You befriended me 
once w^hen you w’as a boy ; it was a dozen years ago, but I 
haint forgot it. Do you remember when you was on the 
mountain after chestnuts, this very cornin’ fall tw^elve years 
ago, that you saw an ugly an’ wretched-lookin’ old w^oman 
fall an’ hurt herself on a sharp stone, so that she could ’nt git 
up again to w^alk to her home ? an’ d’ye remember that you 
run an’ helped her up, an’ that ye walked by her side, and 
supported h/^r weak old body till she reached her miserable 
hut? That was me, Edward Stanton. You didn’t know 
me. You did n’t know I was old Molly Pry, the wicked old 
fortune-teller. You may not recollect my ugly old face now, 
but I remember yourn. Ah, I know that face well. It was 
a boy’s face then, an’ it is a man’s face now. Still I remem- 
ber it. Molly may remember an injury for a long time ; but 
a hindness she will never forgit. Good-by, an* do n’t fool with 
rattlesnakes any more.” And the old fortune-teller glided 
away, and soon disappeared among the thick laurel that grew 
t Vttle way above. 


tfiE tHTJNDEESTOBM. 


m 


CHAPTEK XX. 

THE THUNDEESTORM. 

Delany’s Cave, which the berry-party, notwithstanding 
the shock some of their nerves had encountered, concluded 
to visit ere returning to the settlement, was situated then 
prv cisely where it is now ; and as it is to-day, and as we 
have it, we will endeavor briefly to describe it. 

At >he margin of a cleared plateau that lies near the sum- 
mit of the tall ridge, is a kind of basin, thirty or forty feet in 
kameter ;.y twenty feet deep, scooped out by the hand of 
Nature. 21.S you stand on the edge of the basin a dark aper- 
ture near the bottom — an opening in the earth about three 
feet in diameter — might almost escape your notice. But that 
narrow, rough, rock-bound aperture is the entrance to De- 
lany’s Cave. Descend the slanting side of the earth-basin, 
stoop, and peer into the dark opening, and you see a descend- 
ing passage, nd with solid rocks, that takes its gloomy 
course, at an angle a little steeper than the mountain side, 
into the depths of the earth. Light a torch, and step care- 
iully in upon the slanting floor of damp, rough rocks, for 
the floor is several feet below the aperture. Then walk down 
the passage, which gradually becomes wider and rougher, till 
you have left far behind you the little daylight that struggles 
in at the narrow entrance. Turn and look back, and you see 
only a little bright spot, that reminds you of a silver dollar. 
A few steps further, down, down, down, and the bit of day- 
light is'seen no more; then you fully realize that your only 
dependence is the torch you carry. It matters not now what 
the hour is — it is all one here. The darkness is always the 
same thick, impenetrable gloom. Nor does it matter the 




20d 

season of ilie year — whether winter or summer — the samd 
cool, damp (but not cold) atmosphere is always prevalent 
here. It is not, perhaps, the pleasantest place in the world; 
but it is interesting. A drop of water will occasionally 
trickle upon you, but that is nothing. 

At first your eyes can discern nothing but the torch itself ; 
but gradually they become accustomed to the incessant strug* 
gle between the black darkness and the flaming light, and 
you find yourself able to fix your gaze with tolerable accu- 
racy on objects around you. 

When you have penetrated to the depth of five or six hun- 
dred yards you begin to encounter other passages. These 
grow more and more numerous as you descend. They run 
in all directions — at right angles, acute angles and collater- 
ally ; and it behooves you to mark well your way, and watch 
your light to see that it exhibits no signs of dying, or your 
chances of finding your way out will rapidly diminish. 

All this time you are not descending a smooth, regular, or 
in any wise uniform slope. On the contrar}/, the way is 
rough, with ill-shapen stones, both fixed and detached — is 
somewhat winding, and at some points much steeper than at 
others. Now and then you encounter an abrupt offset of 
several feet, to descend which requires great care ; after 
which you stand upon a kind of landing or shelf that extends 
horizontally a dozen feet, then terminates, perhaps, in ,n- 
another steep descent. Occasionally you pass a very narrow 
point, where projecting rocks on either side seem straining to 
meet half way, and effectually blockade the passage ; but the 
next moment you emerge into a room so spacious that your 
torch will not cast its light from one wall to the other, and 
you can barely see the sparkling drops of water that hang 
upon the damp ceiling. 

As for sounds, every foot-fall has a dozen rumbling echoes., 
and may even be heard rolling sullenly away among the 
passages ; while a drop of water, trickling from some crevice 
and splashing into a tiny pool, is so distinctly heard that you 


ME I'HU^TDEUSTOHM. 


201 


^tre fall- to'persuade yourself that it is a much larger irop of 
W9ter than is seen in the outward world — as large as an ordi- 
nary maihle, at least. Pick up one of the loose stones which 
cccasionally rattle under your feet, hurl it down the passage, 
and with its rolling, and pitching, and tumbling from one 
point to another, and the many echoes it makes among the 
gloomy archwayS; you may not hear the last of it for five 
i.,! mutes. 

When your light begins to flare up and settle down, now 
bright and dull by fits and starts, retrace your steps quickly 
and carefully, for in five or ten minutes you may be left in 
the grim darkness. When, as you are hurriedly retracing 
your steps, you perceive by the usual indications that your 
light cannot last a minute longer, you cannot say you feel 
exactly alarmed ; but should you at that moment look up 
and find yours.df just within sight of a distant bright speck, 
which ycu know is the mouth of the cave, you feel a degree 
of relief certainly equal to any trifling misgiving you may 
have experienced. 

Som;: of the party, after what had occurred to the harum- 
scarum Ned, felt but little relish for further pleasure-seeking, 
and even proposed to give up visiting the cave, and return to 
their homes; but Ned, although it was impossible that he 
could feel quite well, would not hear to it. He insisted that 
the visit must not be given up on his account; that he felt 
very well — unusuahy so — and that he intended to visit the 
cave, whether any one else should or not. 

One thing was decided, namely : ihat no more berries 
should be gathered that day — ’t wasn’t safe. One rattle- 
snake, about four feet long, had been encountered, and, no 
doubt, its mate was not far off — yes, and may be, half a 
dozen others and theio* mates. Accordingly, all proceeded 
on foot to the cave, leaving the horses where they had been 
all day. ■ 

After a walk of less than half a mile, they reached the 
plateau, which was then, as now, void of trees, and covered 


202 


THE WHITE EOCK^. 

with grass. Here, no longer protected from the sun, they 
for the first time realized how hot and oppressive the a:r 
was; and the view being no longer obstructed, they per- 
ceived that heavy clouds were beginning to thrust their inky 
edges above the western horizon. 

“ Oh, I fear it is going to storm !” said one of the girls. 

** The air feels like it,*’ responded one of the boys. 

** And these black clouds that are rising in the we.it seem 
to favor the conclusion,” said another. 

** How terribly hot it is !” said Tilly Tate, speaking for the 
first time since her fright. 

“ Then,” suggested Ned, “let us go into the cave; it is 
cool enough in there, I dare say.” 

“ Might the storm come up before we come out?” queried 
a timid girl. 

“ No fear of that,” was replied ; “ it is too far off. But 
come, let us go in.” 

Before leaving the wood some pine branches were cut and 
split up for torches. At the mouth of the cave these were 
lighted, with considerable difficulty, too — for the quick blaze 
of a lucifer match had not yet gleamed on the world — and 
with a corresponding waste of time. A torch comprised a 
small bundle of pine splinters held firmly together, or tied, 
when convenient. The party at last entered the cave, one 
after another, and carefully took their way into its dark re- 
cesses. Philip Kirke, who carried a large torch, walked 
boldly in advance, secretly resolved to explore the cave to 
its uttermost recesses, if his light should hold out. 

“These foolish country people,” he muttered, “ think this 
quite a wonderful affair. I’ll venture it could be hid in a 
corner of the cave I visited in Kentucky. Danger of being 
lost I Pooh! I should n’t be surprised if I were to find its 
terminus before I return.” And he strode on swiftly, yet 
carefully, down, down, down, step by step, till his torch dis- 
appeared from the rest of the party. 

“Who is that going so far ahead?” asked George Eoland. 


tHE THUNDERSTORM. 


20S 


“ it must be Ned Stanton,” replied Will H.mpstead. 

“ No, it is ’nt, for here I am,*’ put in tbe redoubtable Ned 
himself. 

“Why, Ned,” said George, in surprise, “it is a wonder it 
was n’t you. How comes it you are not running ahead, risk- 
ing your neck, as usual ? I hope that snake affair — ” 

“ How comes it you We not?” retorted Ned. “ I never yet 
put my neck in so much danger as you did yours at the 
White Eocks, when you carved your name, you know.” 

“ I was a boy then,” returned George, “ and had no better 
sense.” 

At that moment George slipped and fell, extinguishing his 
torch, and scattering its fragments about. A laugh was en- 
joyed at his mishap, and he was rallied on account of his 
“ awkwardness.” His torch was irrevocably lost, but it could 
easily be spared, for Ned carried one, as did also several 
others near at hand. This dialogue, together with George’s 
little mischance, had the effect of entirely banishing all 
thought of the adventurer who had gone ahead. He was 
forgotten. 

The party moved slowly into the depths of the cave, till 
the advance reached the intricate passages a long way from 
the entrance. Not one half the party, however, had come 
so far. All the girls and a number of the young men had 
stopped at intervals on the way, to await the return of those 
who were “ fonder of fun ” than they. 

After a while, when the lights seemed to be growing weary, 
the most adventurous began to retrace their steps, and in due 
time all were once more approaching the little bright spot 
that led to the outer world — all save one. 

The sound of thunder greeted their ears, and abruptly re- 
called to their minds what they had entirely forgotten — that 
when they entered the cave, an hour before, there were indi- 
cations of a coming storm. They at once began the work of 
evacuation, and the first one out ran up the side of the basin, 
ftnd saw a sight calculated to appal any one who dreads a 


204 ’ THE WHITE ROCKS. 

storm. Tlie sun had already been shut in behind great 
volumes of clouds that had rolled up from the western hori- 
zon, and the swift-winged lightnings were chasing each other 
hither and thither across the darkened heavens. Every peal 
of thunder sounded louder and nearer, and the threatening 
clouds, charged with fire and hail, grew blacker and blacker 
as they approached. As yet the air was still. Not a leaf 
quivered. The blades of grass still drooped, wan and de- 
jected. But a kind of moaning sound could be heard in the 
direction of the approaching mass, clouds of dust could be 
seen rising from the settlement, and it was pretty clear that 
the element of wind would not be wanting to make the 
terror of the storm complete. 

“ Oh, let us hurry to the horses !” exclaimed one. 

“Or remain at the cave for shelter,” suggested Will Hemp- 
stead ; “ but then what would become of the horses?” 

“ They would all break loose and spill themselves down the 
mountain,” responded Ned Stanton. 

“ Let us go at once to the horses,” said Tilly. ‘^Perhaps 
we can reach our house before the storm arrives.” 

“No doubt we can,” said George Eoland; “so come on, 
one and all, if you are agreed.” 

All now walked rapidly — almost ran — toward the horses ; 
but they had not yet reached them when the wind, that came 
howling in advance of the storm, struck the face of the moun- 
tain, and the storm approached with increased swiftness. 
Big drops of rain, mingled with hail-stones, were beginning 
to patter upon the foliage ; the lightning flashed vividly, and 
several such peals of thunder broke upon the mountain that 
it Was a marvel that the old rocks could remain quiet and 
unmoved. 

Amid wind, and rain, and hail, half blinded by the vivid 
lightning, and half stunned by the loud thunder, our bewib 
dered adventurers mounted their horses— the girls not wait- 
ing to be assisted, but springing nimbly to their saddles — and 
rode away without much regard to military order; and it 


tHii THtlNDEESTORM. 205 

Wa« owing to this hurried and confused state of things that 
the absence nf one of their number was unnoticed. 

They were not a quarter of the way down the mountain 
when the angry storm burst forth in all its fury. The large 
hail-stones no longer dropped one by one, but came clatter- 
ing among the rocks in swmrms ; the rain poured from the 
skies, dashed among the trees, and soon drenched the young 
travelers t© the skin ; the wind rushed with prodigious force 
against the side of the mountain, bending and tearing up 
many of the great trees, and wresting large branches from 
others, sending them crashing among the rocks. The thun- 
der, no longer content to mutter only among the clouds, nor 
the lightning to traverse the face of the heavens, both de- 
scended as though intent to shiver and crush the tall moun- 
tains, and send them crumbling to the valleys below. Very 
Nature seemed to have gone mad. Her fiery teeth gnawed 
the stern rocks and split the more tender trees, while her 
savage growl was heard issuing from the black clouds which 
mantled her face. 

The poor horses, terrified into very meekness by the raging 
storm, bore their riders down the mountains, trembling at 
every step — occasionally falling to their knees and struggling 
up again ; and it Wtts a wonder that no necks were broken 
ere they reached the valley. 

In the midst of th^ storm the party arrived at Ira Tate’s, 
turned the horses into the farm-yard, and rushed into the 
house for shelter; though, saturated as their garments al- 
ready were, they might as well have remained without. 

To recount their many breathless exclamations as they 
found themselves housed from the sweeping storm would be 
almost impossible. “Oh, d?^ar !” “Well, I declare!” “Did 
you ever ?” “ If this do n’t I” “ W'ell, I never 1” “ Oh, is nt 
this — ” “ I think I shall die !” “ My bonnet, oh, my bonnet !” 
“ 1 ’m half dead 1” “ My dress!” “ My shoes !” and “ My, oh, 
my 1” were a few of Ih^ innocent expressions which burst 


206 


THE WHITE 


from the females ; while the gentlemen, one and all, agreed 
that, taking everything into consideration, it beat thunder.’ 

It did not escape the notice of the more observing that, 
since their arrival at the house, Mary White now and then 
gazed wistfully among the party, as though to seek out some 
missing one, and that, by and by, she betrayed increasing 
signs of uneasiness. The truth of the matter was, that Mary, 
poor girl, had missed her lover, and she felt a natural deli- 
cacy about openly expressing the fears which she felt for his 
safety. Could he have been thrown from his horse during 
the ride down the mountain, unnoticed by any one ? Or 
could he have lost his way in the cave ? and might he yet 
be wandering about among its dark passages ? Oh, fearful 
thought I 

“Where is Phil Kirke?” abruptly asked one of the party, 
as the storm began to subside. 

The question pierced the heart of Mary like a keen dagger. 
Every one looked about him, and every one suddenly remem- 
bered that he had not seen Philip Kirke since the arrival at 
Ira Tate’s. He was not there. 

“ I have not seen him since we came into the house,” said 
one. 

“ Nor have I,” said several others. 

All began to manifest some concern, and Mary was e.d- 
dently suffering the most intense anxiety. 

“ Could he have been thrown from his horse coming down 
the mountain?” suggested one. 

“He might have been,” replied nother, without bein^ 
seen. It was difficult to see anything.” 

“ Did he leave the cave with us at all ?” 

“ Sure enough 1 Who has even seen him sitKje we left th 
cave ?” 

All were silent. No one had seen him since leaving hht 
•^ave. Philip had been forgotten. 

“ Where is his horse ?” was asked. 

No one could telL 


THE THUNDERSTORM. 


207 


Oh, horror !** exclaimed several, in sudden consternation. 
“ Can he have been lost in the cave !” 

“ Do n’t be alarmed,” said Ned Stanton, coolly ; “ if he is 
there he will find his way out in a day or two; or, if not, we 
will go up and help him. He has escaped a confoundea 
ducking, if hew there; that is one advantage he has over us.” 

“ Some one go and look if his horse is in the barn-yard,” 
eaid Mary, unable to conceal her anxiety. 

Ned, who knew all the horses in the country as well as he 
did the people themselves, took upon himself the task, and at 
once departed for the barn. He soon returned, and reported 
that the horse which Philip had ridden was not there. 

“ Oh, what has become of him ?” exclaimed Mary, in an 
agitated voice, turning deathly pale. 

“ Laid down in the cave, no doubt, to take a nap,’’ replied 
the urfev:iing Ned, who had entirely forgotten his o'vri mis- 
haj[. of the day. “ Never fear ; if he do n’t make his appear- 
ance by to-morrow morning, a party of us will go up and 
end him out.” 

To-morrow morning! Philip to lie bleeding and senseless, 
perhaps, among the rocks of the mountain, or to wander dis- 
tractedly about in the gloom of the cave till to-morrow morn- 
ing 1 Oh, who can describe the feelings of the innocent girl 
who, by some strange freak of fate, loved the missing villain? 
— her bitter anxiety and gnawing dread ? What would she 
not have giv^n to s^e him step into the house and stand before 
her safe and well at that moment ? Ah, had she known all, 
she might '’\ave hoped and prayed that he had gone from har 
sight forever 1 

It was near five o’clock. The rain and hail had ceased to 
fall, but the clouds still hung upon the mountains, and the 
thunder was yet heard reverberating among the congregated 
hills. A riderless horse, with saddle, but no bridle, was seen 
coming from toward the mountain. 

“That’s Phil’s horse I’ exclaimed several. 


208 


THE WHITE BOCKS. 


“ Has broken loose from where he was hitched,” suggested 
Ned. “ Pulled his bridle off in the operation.” 

“The storm is over; wont some of you go and look for 
him?” pleaded Mary. 

“ I ’ll go, for one,” said Ned Stanton. 

“ And I, for another,” rejoined George Poland. 

•‘And I,” said Will ‘Hempstead. 

“And I,” “ And I,” came from all the young men of the 
party. 

“ Ned, perhaps you had better not go,” suggested one of 
the girls. “ You ought to keep as quiet as possible, since — ” 

“ Poohl” interrupted Ned. “You all seem to think that 
snake affair a fearful thing. What would you think to see a 
man bite a snake’s head off, as I did once, and — ” 

“ Do you mean that you bit a snake’s head off, or that }*uU 
only saw another do it ?” queried one. 

“ Why,” replied Ned, hesitating as to how great a shot he 
should make with the long bow, “ why — I — I really do n’t 
know w^hich I meant — but it ’s all the same. Come, let us 
look to our horses, and hurry up the mountain in search of 
Phil. We may meet him on the way, though, for I should n’t 
be surprised to learn that he left us during the storm, and 
took shelter under a pine tree. Come, we may have to go a 
long distance — clear to the cave, probably — and it is gettin? 
late.” 

The young men sought their horses, vaulted into the wet 
saddles, and hurriedly retraced their steps, watching care- 
fully on their way up the mountain for any indications of the 
missing man. But, without seeing any trace of him, they 
reached the spot where the horses had been hitched during 
C e day, where they found a bridle still fast to a sapling by 
the hitchi*ig-strap, while the severed throat-latch show^ed 
that the horse had slipped it over his head. It was then the 
unanimous opinion that Philip Kirke, the rider of the hoise, 
was yet in the cave, and that the chances were against his 
ever coming out. All proceeded at once to the cave. Even- 


THE THUNDEESTOEM. 


209 


ing was approaching, and the gloomy opening in the moun- 
tain frowned upon tliem like a living grave. What could he 
done? The cave must be searched as far as possible; but 
they had no means of striking a light. The pine branches 
were literally soaked with the rain, and to get them to burn 
would be next to impossible. It was decided that some of 
the party should return to the settlement, collect all the lan- 
terns that could be had, and bring them to the cave^ while a 
messenger should be dispatched to Weston to give the alarm 
there and get all the assistance possible — not forgetting to 
bring a quantity of twine or cord, which the party might 
trail after them when penetrating into the most intricate 
parts, by which to retrace their way, in case their lights 
should give out. 

Nearly all of the crowd departed for the settlement, in 
order to put their plans into execution, while the few who 
remained entered the cave as far as they durst without 
lights, and shouted v/ith all their power of voice, hoping 
against hope that the lost man might be within hearing, and 
reply. But the gloomy depths of the cave which yawned 
ahead gave back but the sullen echoes of their own voices* 
A long time they paused and listened. All was still as 
death — quiet as the grave. 


CHAPTER XXI. 
lost! 

Let us accompany Philip Kirke in subterranean per- 
ambulations. He glances briefly behind him now and then, 
bs he descends the dark, rough path, to ascertain if other 
torches are yet within sight. At length he has passed be- 

14 


210 


THE WHITE EOCKS. 


yond sight of the other explorers, and is alone. His eyes 
have now become accustomed to the thick gloom of the cave, 
and objects begin to stand out pretty clearly in the coarse 
light of his torch. Very carefully he takes his way among 
the numerous passages, noting well the path he travels, that 
he may find his way out easily. Yet he moves not slowly. 
His long, firm strides carry him down the ui^ven path rather 
swiftly than, otherwise. 

“ If I am expert,” he mutters, ** I may make some dis- 
covery — if there is any to be made here — or I may penetrate 
to the very terminus of this passage, and return to the party 
before they are ready to quit the cave. As my light is 
limited, too, I must crowd all the investigations I can into 
the smallest possible space of time. I wonder if I could find 
my way out easily in case my light should unexpectedly leave 
me. I must watch for the first indications it may show of 
approaching a close, and then will be my time to return. I 
would not care to risk myself so far in without a light. How- 
ever, the party will not leave the mountain without me, I am 
sure; and should I lose my light and my way, they will come 
in search of me with fresh lights. Pooh I there ’s no danger ! 
This cave cannot be endless. Even in the dark I could find 
my way out in a few hours at most.” 

On goes the adventurer, step after step, lower and lower 
into the depths of the earth. A quarter of an hour passes 
away — twenty, twenty-five minutes — and he has not stopped 
yet. He still continues his explorations. What can he be 
thinking of? He is certainly running some risk in penetra- 
ting so far alone. lie has passed many tributary caverns on 
his way, and they all stared gloomily at him as he stalked 
heedlessly by. He is now among- winding passages, from 
which, should his light go out, he would find it difficult tc 
extricate himself. He does not appear to think of that. On, 
on, down, down, he goes, looking alternately to the right and 
to the left, noting vrell the way. He has reached a point 
where the way is more level, and finally it no longer de- 


lost! 


211 


ecends. Still there is no end ; it grows wider, and is tra- 
versed, at short intervals, by other passages. Philip is 
beginning to think that Delany’s Cave is no small affair, 
after all, and might even be pronounced extensive. 

Ah, he has stopped at last. Some new idea has evidently 
flitted across his brain. His attitude is that of a man listen- 
ing for some danger ; his very soul seems on the alert. His 
face looks strangely under the red rays of the light he holds, 
as if there were something of dread in that new thought. 

“Hark !’* he mutters. “ What sound was that? Was it a 
groan?” He trembles now, for queer things revolve in his 
mind. “ Why did I not think of that before ? Confusion ! 
I am losing nerve I Why did I come so far into the depths 
of the earth — alone ? What a place this would be to meet a 
spirit ! — if spirits do return to this world. If they do, what 
place so apt as this would the ghost of that murdered man 
select to terrify me I Hark ! That sound again I” 

He stands a moment trembling, pale and silent. A foolish 
dread, from which the guilty are never secure, has taken pos- 
session of him. There is a strange, hollow sound not far off, 
but its exact locality it is difficult to determine. It is like 
the moaning of the wind in some desolate place, or the dis- 
tant murmur of the sea. It may be the outward breeze, 
heard through some tortuous crevice in the side of the moun- 
tain ; or, perchance, some secluded rivulet that winds its way 
among the rocks, as it has done for ages without ever once 
seeing the light of day. A little stream, dancing through 
:rt vices and over small precipices, would emit an odd sound 
in the lonely cave — heard a little way off, of course. It can- 
not be a groan — that hollow sound. Possibly it strikes his 
guilty ear like a groan, because he suddenly remembers lis- 
tening to the dying groans of an honest old man whom he 
murdered. That was in a cave, too, that scene of death, and 
he remembers that the groans of the suffering man sounded 
strangely; and this little sound he has just heard, and ca?i 


212 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


even now tear — though it gro\v3 louder and fainter at inter- 
vals — has brought them so forcibly back to- his mind. 

“I’ll go back,” he mutters, turning carefully about, that 
he may not hear the somber echoes of his own footsteps. 
“Yes, I’ll return at once; to remain in this gloomy place 
ten minutes longer would make a coward of me. Oh, if I 
should chance to see a strange form — But nonsense ! Hark ! 
What ’s that ?” 

Merely a little pool of clear water, into which a glittering 
drop suddenly falls with its wonted echoes, causing its sur- 
face to quiver and sparkle in the light of the torch, and to 
assume, for an instant, to the eyes of Philip, some fantastic 
shape. He starts back in momentary alarm, slips from a 
stone upon which he has just stepped, and clumsily falls — 
scattering- the pine sticks, which comprise his torch, all 
around him, leaving him in black darkness, with only a few 
dull-looking sparks staring mockingly into his face. 

“ A curse on the luck !” he exclaims, in a vexed tone ; and 
hastily gathering up half a dozen of the scattered splinters, 
he places them together, and falls to blowing upon the red 
coals, with an energy the occasion demands. 

But having fallen among the damp rocks, the fragments of 
the torch, which a moment ago burnt brightly, can no more 
be induced to emit a flame. The embers glow a little as each 
successive breath fans them, but during every interval they 
grow weaker and duller, dying out one after another, till, 
Anally, the last spark glimmers, fades, and is gone — and 
darkness, indeed, reigns supreme in the great vaults of the 
mountain. 

“ Oh, Heaven !” gasps the vain explorer, fully realizing the 
terrible danger of his situation, and starting wildly up in the 
gloom. “ If I should miss my way, what will become of me ? 
A single mistake, a single deviation from the path by which 
I came, and I may wander far away beneath the mountains, 
till I fall down to die a lingering, a horrible death I I may 
be suffocated by foul air, stored in some of the passages, or I 


lost! 


213 


may fall headlong into some deep pit ! Oh, what would I not 
give to be out of this dark den once more ! Why, this is 
more than mere total darkness. The gloom is thick and 
hard to breathe — seems compressed, crov/ded into a space too 
small to hold it. My very eyes are thrust deeper into my 
head by the pressure, and they pain me. But I must act. I 
must nrmke an attempt to find my way to the mouth of the 
cave,, and if I fail — Oh, Heaven ! How dare I meet death !” 

A few moments ago, while his torch was yet burning 
brightly, Philip Kirke imagined that it would be no serious 
afiair to be left in darkness ; but now that he finds himself 
surrounded on all sides by the gloom of ft— ► cave, he is 
already trembling with deadly fear. It is a remarkable fact, 
that when a man loses himself in some intricate place, the 
danger of his situation does not gradually impress him, but 
in an instant, and with bewildering effect, rushes upon him. 

The alarmed adventurer begins to grope his way over the 
rough stones, now slipping and almost losing his footing, now 
coming in contact with the damp, rocky wall, or stepping 
into a pool of water — trembling all the while with appre- 
hension. He feels tolerably confident that he is going in the 
direction of the only little aperture through which hope can 
beam upon him, for he is certainly ascending the slanting 
way ; but there is danger that at some evil moment he may 
turn into the wrong passage, for in the darkness they are all 
alike. With a light he could easily find his way out, for he 
remembers the appearance of the passage by which he de- 
scended; but in the darkness, that black darkness, how fear- 
fully are the chances against him ! He may travel half an 
hour, and how is he to know that -he is not on the wrong 
road, and that the time is not wasted ? He may go on till 
he finds to a certainty that he has deviated from the right 
passage, he may retrace his steps — and how is he to know 
when he has returned to it ? How does he know now that 
every step is not carrying him further and further from the 
right course, and deeper and deeper into the unexplored 


214 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


caverns of the mountain ? He may walk on until almost 
within sight of the opening, and he may think himself astray, 
and retrace his steps to try some other course. All these 
agonizing thoughts rush upon him in a moment, causing him 
to shudder still more with apprehension. He gropes on, 
thrusting out his hands before him and on either side, to 
feel for the rough walls. On, on, higher and higher. Surely 
he is in the right path. The distant mouth of the cave, with 
the light peering feebly in — oh, welcome f^Wit ! — must soon 
appear now. But no. The way suddenly ceases to ascend. 
He does not remember that on his way down he passed over 
any level ground. And yet he is groping his way along a 
horizontal passage. He follows it for fifty yards or so, and it 
does not begin to rise — but suddenly it falls off beyond, and 
Philip finds himself descending again ! — descending into the 
heart of the mountain ! Oh, the fearful reality stares him in 
the face — he has gone astray; he has wandered from the 
right passage, and how feeble the hope that he will ever 
find it again — that he will ever emerge from this living tomb, 
and stand again in the bright world without I 

Almost wildly he turns about and retraces his steps. A 
true sense of his fearful situation has dawned upon him, and 
trembling in every joint as he again gropes his way in the 
direction from which he has just come, he cries out in mental 
agony : 

“ Oh, God ! have mercy — have mercy on me I Oh, do not 
thus cut me off in my sins ! Oh, do not let me die in this 
terrible place ! Let me breathe the bright air of heaven once 
more!” and while he thus appeals to his Maker — probably 
for the first time in many years — he trembles more violently, 
and, notwithstanding the cool temperature of the air within 
the cave, great drops of perspiration are starting from his 
face. 

On, on, on, upward again in the darkness ; now descend- 
ing again ; now turning into some gaping cavern on the 
right, now another on the left ; now stepping into a crevice 


lost! 


215 

)f gully, or stumbling over an obstructing rock ; now siip- 
pi.ig and falling, but springing up again with a renewed 
ptrenzy, he strides — around and around, back and forth, 
half crazed, bewildered, losing all reckoning of time, dis- 
tance and direction. 

Hours have passed, and he has not yet seen the glimmer- 
ing of daylight afar off ; and at length he throws himself 
down in despair. He cries, curses, shouts, screams, tears his 
hair, rends his clothes, and clutches savagely at the silent 
stones on which he lies, till he is almost exhausted. The 
echoes of his voice die away, and quiet reigns as before. 

At length he arises again, and resumes his wanderings. 
For a few steps he walks swiftly — almost runs — but sud- 
denly coming in contact with the hard wall, or stumbling 
Dver some obstruction, he slackens his pace. Yet he wanders 
on — on, on, on. Another hour, and he stops again, and 
throws himself down. 

“ Ah,** he mutters, with a strange calmness, ** a fitting fate 
for me. Poor Henry White died in a cave, with no friend 
near him, and I must die here, with great mountains piled 
upon me — here, in this terrible place, where no ray of light 
can penetrate — my body and soul in darkness ! Oh, why 
have they not sought me yet ? Ah, I have wandered beyond 
their reach — ^pierced into the bowels of the mountains, proba- 
bly, miles beyond all former exploration, and they will never 
reach me. Even my body will never be found. It will lie 
here and rot ; the bones will whiten and finally crumble into 
dust, and still no one will come near. Oh, terrible fate ! Oh, 
fearful thought! I cannot — I will not — I must not die 
yetr* he exclaims, springing frantically to his feet. “ I dare 
not meet my Maker with such a load of guilt upon my soul 1 
Mercy! Mercy! God, have mercy! Help! Help! Help!** 
he screjims, rushing blindly away. 

For half an hour he moves about, to and fro, hither and 
thither, scrambling over rocks, and rushing against sharp 
corners and ragged points, but all to no purpose. At length 


‘216 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 

he stoj^s again, and, in the agony of despair, throws himsr..’! 
bruised and bleeding, upon the loose stones at his feet, crying 
hoarsely : 

“Lost! Lost! Lost!’' 

Again he starts up, screams for help, tears his hair, 
scratches his face, wrings his hands, prays, curses, seizes 
large stones and dashes them about him. Some of them fly 
a long distance into adjacent passages* rattling, rolling and 
tumbling as they go ; others strike the roof or wall near by, 
and fall to the ground. Their hollow echoes die away, and 
once more all is quiet. 

“Lost! Lost! Lost!” gasps the wretched man, throwing 
himself upon the ground again. “ Lost, lost, eternally and 
forever I Come, fiends ! Come, devils ! Gather around me, 
and fly away with my guilty soul, for hope is dead !” 

But he rallies again. He does not rise, but he sits think- 
ing if he might devise some means to communicate with the 
outer world.- He thrusts his hands into his pockets to see 
what they contain — whether anything that might suggest 
some new idea. He finds a pencil and an old letter ; then he 
wonders whether, if he were to write a few words on it, de- 
scribing his situation, and cast it away, some stray current of 
air might not carry it out — absurd as it is — and — but, im- 
possible ! He has a large pocket-knife ; might he not strike 
fire with it against a rock, ignite the letter, and use it as a 
torch ? Impossible ! Anyhow, it would last but a moment. 
Might the knife aid him in some other way ? Might he not, 
by working steadily and patiently, cut his way through the 
many fathoms of rocks that are heaped above him? He ac- 
tually thinks of trying it. Yet — nonsense I It is impossibla. 
Why, a thousand knives would wear away at such a task, 
and years of time would be required for its execution. Ah, 
what else is that he finds in a side-pocket? A pistol — a 
common pocket-pistol. Can that aid him ? Might he fire it 
against the roof, and might the force of the bullet, together 
with the concussion produced, loosen some of the rocksi above, 


LOSTl 


217 


wid send them crumbling down until a crevice should open 
above, through which he might at least see the light of day 
once more ? Foolish ! 

“ Ah,” he exclaims, as the faintest ray of hope beams upon 
him, I have it ! I ’ll fire the pistol 1 It will make a loud 
noise, and if any one is within the cave at all, it wiil be 
heard, and will point out the direction in which I am ! Why, 
I declare, it may save me — yes, really save me ! Bu — but-- 
if this does not avail, then I am lost indeed.” 

He arises to his feet once more, elated with this new idea, 
and now, for the first time, discovers how weak he has grown. 
He can scarcely support himself. He feels that his strength 
must soon fail him entirely, should he resume his desultory 
wanderings. He 'cannot even hope to stand erect very long. 
Well, now for a grasp at the last straw. He draws back the 
hammer of the pistol, points the instrument from him, and 
pulls the trigger. Only a dull snap responds ! 

“The priming has become damp,” he mutters; “but I 
think it will go. I will try it again ; and setting the ham- 
mer, he again levels the weapon and pulls the trigger. 

Bang ! Hundreds of echoes roll through the dark laby- 
rinth. They are heard for a minute reverberating among 
distant nooks and deep recesses, they die away, and all is 
still again. Philip listens eagerly for an answering sound — 
listens long and earnestly, scarcely daring to breathe. But 
there is no response. The dead silence mocks him. The 
thick gloom hangs about as before. The flash of the pistol 
disturbed it only for an instant, but did not dispel it. 

“ I’m lost!” whispers the miserable wretch hoarsely ; and 
he dashes his pistol away. 

It strikes the damp wall and falls with a dull clatter ; but 
that is soon over, and all is quiet again. 

A strange sensation thrills through the frame of the de- 
spairing villain ; he trembles violently, his strength leaves 
him, his head swims, his heart flutters, and he begins to 
stagger and reel. 


218 


1:HE white H0CH3 


“ Lost ! Lost ! Lost r lie shudders, and ht falls swooning 
to the ground. 

The loose stones rattle under him, but the Eound speedily 
dies away. Then it is very quiet in the cavein. The dark 
curtain hangs heavy, and the tall arches and piojecting rocks 
seem to be wrapped in sleep. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE RESCUE. 

The alarmed females of the pleasure-excui'sion remained 
at Ira Tate’s till a number of the searching-part} returned 
from the mountain and reported that the missing man was 
lost in the cave ;• then, with some sadness, they departed for 
home, ruminating on the adventures of the past day. All 
were fully persuaded that, taking into consideration the 
frightful affair among the whortleberry bushes, the wild 
storm, and, finally, the danger into which one of their num- 
ber had run himself in the cave, the day’s pleasures had 
been scarcely equivalent to its perplexities and pain. 

After all had gone, poor Mary’s sufferings were heightened 
almost to distraction. How painfully the approaching night 
brought back to memory a night of anxious watching which 
she had once before 'endured 1 How vividly did she now 
recall the terrible night during which she had watched with 
anxious longing for the welcome return of a father who i -ever 
appeared again ! 

“Oh!” she mentally ejaculated, “if this night of waiting 
should terminate as that ; if I should never see him again, 
as I never more saw my poor father, it would be so hard I 


TSE RESCUE. 


21S 


flien, indeed, would I be alone in tbe world I I think my 
heart would break ! I could never smile again ; I could 
never eat, never sleep, never rest, never enjoy myself — would 
always be weary, weary of life ! Oh, God 1 grant he may be 
found! Grant' he may return to me alive!” And Mary 
sought a quiet room of the large old house, sat down by the 
windows, wrung her hands and wept. 

Thus began a second night of painful watching. We will 
not attempt to describe it. We can give no adequate idea 
of the long hours of mental anguish the unfortunate girl 
endured that night. Only those who have been placed in a 
similar situation can form a correct idea; and those who have 
not can but faintly imagine. 

Night soon closed in ; the clouds had rolled away, and the 
bright stars peeped out as merrily as ever. The hours began 
to drag wearily by, and, meanwhile, Mary saw lights moving 
along the road toward the mountain. A great many lights, 
in fact ; she did not count them, but there must have been 
dozens — possibly scores. They were the dull lights of com- 
mon lanterns, not apparently of more importance than the 
phosphorescent insects that were flitting about the meadows 
yet they imparted hope to Mary’s sad and drooping spirits. 
She knew that strong, energetic men had gone to the cave to 
search for her lover, and that if it was possible to save him 
they would succeed. She watched them eagerly till they 
began to ascend the mountain, and till the lights were hid- 
den among the foliage — through the openings of v/hich they 
however, still peeped forth at intervals, like the fire-flies to 
which we have compared them ; but now the road over which 
they had just passed became so very dark and quiet again » 
and the hours began to drag so heavily by, that hope de- 
clined again. 

None of the inmates of the old farm-house retired. They 
remained in a front room, which was lighted by several can- 
dles, determined to await the return of those who had gone 
in quest of the missing man. Ira proposed to accompany 


220 


^HE WHITE BOCKS. 


them to the cave, but Aunt Eliza informed him that he wa^ 
an old man, and should n’t go wandering about in the damp 
cave, when there were plenty of young men to do it. More- 
over, she argued that it would not be safe for three defense- 
less females to be left alone in the house. Ira succumbed 
without a word. He attached great importance to anything 
Aunt Eliza said ; for he firmly believed that such a good, 
industrious and sensible woman, and one, withal, who could 
cook every dish so perfectly, and make such excellent pies as 
Aunt Eliza, must be infallible. She was a systematic house- 
keeper, and since her advent into Ira’s homestead, all domes- 
tic afiairs had been so admirably conducted that he thought 
her, since the death of his wife, the greatest woman in the 
world. 

Mary was not disturbed in the little upstairs front room 
which she had selected as the scene of her lonely watch. The 
others of the family well knew her earnest attachment to 
Philip, felt confident that they were “ engaged,” and even 
suspected that “ the day ” was fixed upon. - None ever ques- 
tioned, or attempted to interfere with her. Indeed, Ira was 
very favorably impressed with Philip; and Aunt Eliza her- 
self acknowledged that he was an engaging young fellow, 
and Mary would probably do as well to “ throw herself 
away” on him as on any other; for it seemed young ladies 
would marry, despite all advice, and the promptings of their 
better sense — if they had any — to the contrary. 

‘‘ The very witching time of night ” passed, and a weary 
hour followed it ; but just as the old clock chimed One ! the 
wakeful girl, from her lonely post, observed faint lights glim- 
mering upon the mountain ; and ere long a number of horse- 
men, some of whom carried lanterns, appeared upon the road 
in the direction of the towering hills ; then she knew that 
the men who had gone in quest of her lost lover were re- 
turning. 

** Oh ! have they found him ! or have they given him up 
for lost!” she exclaimed, in trembling suspense. 


THE RESCUfi. 221 

Ste dreaded to stir from the window, and so sat there tiL 
bhe horsemen arrived at the gate. 

“Hiiloal” called out a lusty voice; and Ira opened the 
loor and hastened down to the gate. 

“ Have you found him?” 

M>iTy, who could hear every word from where she sat, 
magined that ar^ age elapsed before the reply came. 

“ Yes,” was the brief reply. 

“ Where ?” 

“ In the cave.” 

“ Is he hurt ?” 

“ He is insensible, having no doubt met with a fall ; but he 
may not be seriously hurt. We had better leave him in your 
house, and send the doctor here from Weston.” 

“ Certainly,” said the hospitable Ira. 

Mary, still at the window, joyfully concurred. 

“I must go down,” said she; “it will not look well if I 
do n’t. I must be careful not to betray too much feeling, or 
that wont look well either.” 

Oh, adverse fate ! That this man should return to the 
innocent and unsuspecting girl, who watched for him, and 
that the loving father for whom she had watched with equr' 
anxiety should have remained away for ever 1 

Philip was carried up the lawn into the house, and laL"' 
upon a bed in a spare room. Mary, who had come dowr , 
observed that his face was very pale and somewhat bruised. 

“ I will start home at once and send the doctor,” said W’l. 
Hempstead ; and, joined by several others, he mounted hv. 
horse and rode rapidly toward Weston. 

Soon after, Ned Stanton took an affectionate leave of Tilly - 
assuring her that she had not the slightest cause to fed ccn- 
cerned about him; that the wound he had received from 
serpent would no doubt prove a physical benefit to him - 
asmuch as it had “let a little of the bad blood out” of 
system; and he, also, departed for home, accompanied Vr' 
many others: for all were weary with the exertion of 


222 


THE WHITE HOCKS. 


day and niglit. George Roland, John Duftey, and three 6t 
four more, concluded to remain till the doctor should arrive. 
At the request of Miss Tilly, they gave an account of their 
search, which was, in brief, as follows : 

When the messengers returned from the settlement with 
lanterns, et cetera, the whole party entered the cave and 
explored until the scattered fragments of Philip’s torch were 
found where he had fallen and extinguished his light. They 
supposed that he had, of course, gone no further after this 
accident, and that, in attempting' to return in the darkness, 
he had lost his way among the wilderness of passages which 
he had encountered. They at once began to explore the 
caverns on the right and on the left ; and it was only their 
numbers that prevented ihdr getting into a maze. Hours 
of fruitless search passed away, and they were beginning to 
think the case a hopeless one, when Ned Stanton, who had 
at that time penetrated some distance in advance of the 
others into a passage that ran off at an acute angle from the 
main one, thus taking its way deeper into the heart of the 
mountain, retraced his steps suddenly, and imparted to the 
nearest of the party the fact that he had indistinctly heard 
jmething like the report of a pistol ; that it had sounded a 
^ong way ahead, — ^probably a mile, — and he expressed his 
opinion that it was a signal of distress from the lost man. 
-xs it was feared the lights would not last long enough to go 
"•ucn a distance and return, twenty or thirty of the party 
'returned to the exterior of the cave and cut as many pine 
branches as they could carry. With these, fires were built 
fc*t regular intervals as they advanced, and a number of the 
pai'ty appointed to replenish them and keep them burning. 
'J'bus slowly, surely and safely, they pierced far into the 
kKterto unexplored vaults; and finally, in a word, found the 
meensible form of Philip Kirke, lying upon a bed of damp 
c js^ stones. With much difficulty they performed the tedious 
:'a.sk of carrying him from the cave and placing him upon a 
\orse, after which they conveyed him slowly and carefully 


* THE RESCUE. 223 

down the mountain. It was the prevailing opinion that his 
insensibility had been occasioned by a fall. 

The sufferer betrayed signs of returning- vitality before 
the doctor came, and, when that professional gentleman did 
arrive, was soon resuscitated. At first, he found it diflicult 
to persuade himself that it was not all a frightful dream; 
but convinced that it was not, his astonishment that he had 
awaked in a no-more-than-comfortably warm locality was 
only equaled by his joy. 

The doctor pronounced his physical condition not at all 
dangerous, stating that^he was only prostrated by weakness, 
the result of undue excitement and exertion ; that he had 
received some merely nominal contusions by falling or coming 
in contact with projecting rocks in the cave, and that he had 
swooned more from exhaustion than from any hurt he had 
sustained. He advised that he should remain quiet for a 
day or two, and prescribed no medicine save stimulants. 

“ He will be as well as ever,” said the doctor, when he 
had left the room of his patient,' “in three or four days at 
most, unless fever should be the result of his nervous excite- 
ment, which I do not anticipate. If any unfavorable symp- 
toms show themselves, you may send for me. And with 
these directions to Ira, the doctor departed. 

Philip was well cared for during the day which followed. 
He was visited by a number of his young associates from 
Weston in the course of the day, and, when night came, 
others arrived. He was a little feverish during the after- 
noon, and the early part of the evening; but by ten o’clock 
he had become quite composed, and soon fell asleep. Finding 
that his sleep was quite natural, and likely to continue, the 
neighbors left. 

Philip awoke early next morning feeling almost well. He 
arose, took a brief ramble among the neighboring woods, on 
which there was not much dew that morning; and on return- 
ing to the farm-house, found himself able to do ordinary 
justice to a good breakfast As the morning wore away, he 


224 


THE WHITE BOOKS. 


sat in the plain little sitting-room, looking through the open 
window toward the road, and gazing over some green fields 
that lay beyond. The rain and storm of two days previous 
had revived vegetation, cooled and purified the air; and it 
was really a pleasant summer morning. By and by, Mary 
entered, and with some sewing, or other light domestic work, 
took a seat by one of the windows. 

“ I am glad you are so well this morning,” she remarked. 

“I knew I would soon be well,” returned Philip. “Had 
I not met with a fall or two while in the a ve, I would not 
have been indisposed at all. In truth, I h^^ve no doubt I 
would have been able to find my way out. I fear I caused 
you some anxiety by straying away.” 

“I was, indeed,” replied Mary, “very aniious, from the 
moment I missed you till I knew you were safe. But for 
the fierce storm that was just on us when we returned to the 
mouth of the cave, I should have detected your absence at 
once : but we all hurried away to the horsey and it soon 
began to storm so terribly that we could scarcely see at all. 
I really do not know how I found my horse, or how I managed 
to get on ; I do not remember anything about it. But so 
soon as we found ourselves under shelter, I began to look for 
you, and to my apprehension could not find you.” 

“I knew you must be very anxious; that thought gave 
me more concern while I was 'wandering about in the cave 
than the danger of my own situation,” said Philip, trying 
his hand at lying. 

“ That is just like you,” Mary replied. 

There was a pause of a minute’s duration, after which 
Philip asked: 

“ Did all manifest great solicitude for my safety — Ned 
Stanton, Boland, and all those fellows?” 

“ Yes, all. Ned seemed to have forgotten his own ilV, and 
he and George Boland were the first to start in quest of you. 
Will Hempstead was very active, too; so was John 


THE RESCUE. 


225 


^0 came from the village as soon as' he heard that you were 
probably lost. He was not with our party, you know.” 

“ I know,” returned Philip. He do n’t appear to jare 
tor parties any more. I think he is going to marry that New 
Market girl.” 

I am sure of it.” 

** What a beautiful morning it is,” Philip observed. 

“ Lovely. The storm has cooled the atmosphere, and the 
rain has imparted new life to the green things.’* 

Another pause. 

Where is Tilly,” Philip asked, presently. 

“ At the spring-house,” I believe. 

“ Churning, probably,” ventured Philip. 

“ Yes.” 

“ I have not seen your aunt since breakfast.” 

“ She is still in the kitchen setting things to rights. Sh> 
could not live if she were not working continually.” 

“ I think your uncle went out to the fields.’* 

“ Yes.” 

** Industrious old man he is, — and so strong and vigorotU 
yet. What is his age?” 

“ He is well-nigh sixty.” 

“ He is seldom sick, I should judge?” 

“ Never.” 

Another pause. 

** Mary 1” 

Mary turned quickly toward the speaker. 

“Why,” he went on, “I was just thinking that — I won- 
dered whether we would — when would be the best, in farC' 
the most appropriate, time for — for” — - 

“For what?” Mary asked. 

“ Our marriage.” 

Mary blushed. 

“I was thinking,” he went on, “that — would Christmas— 
or the following spring be — be — most — ■’* 

Mary blushed again, and replied : 

15 


226 


THE WHITE HOCKS. 


You are kind not to press me ; and if I should say wait 
till spring, I am sure you would agree ?” 

Your pleasure shall be mine.” 

Then let it not be till May. My father will then have 
been dead two years. By allowing two years to elapse 
before marrying, I will show that I have not lightly forgotten 
him.” 

“Well spoken, Mary,” Philip replied; “I love you all the 
more for that. And while I am waiting for the happy day, 
the thought that I am waiting for one who is thus dutiful 
to the memory of her father, will serve to augment the plea- 
sure of anticipation.” 

Mary blushed again. Strange how young ladies do blush 
when discussing matrimonial affairs. But they do ; and it 
becomes them, too. 

“Is that an almanac hanging there?” Philip presently 
asked. 

“Yes; do you want it?” 

“ A moment.” 

Mary took it from its place and tossed it playfully toward 
Philip, who, catching it adroitly, turned over some of the 
leaves, referred to a particular page for a moment, then ob- 
served: 

“ The first day of last May was Thursday ; the first of 
next May will therefore be Friday. Now, we might set the 
exact day, you know, and — ” 

“ It w'as on the twelfth of last May, a year ago, that. [ sat 
up watching for father. Let it be fully two years aftei that 
terrible night — the thirteenth, for instance.” 

“ That will come on Wednesday.” 

“ Well, Wednesday is not an unlucky day.” 

“ I believe not ; though I have heard that Tuesday is So, 
Wednesday, the thirteenth, is to be the day?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Shall we keep it quiet?” 

“ Oh, y el let is give every one a surprise}” 


THE RESCUE. 


227 


“Then we will let no one know of it till it is over.” 

“ Agreed.” 

When the time begins to draw near, we will even preten'l 
to have grown distant, and that we no longer care for eacli 
other — that the surprise may be the greater.” 

“ So we will.” 

And so it was agreed. 

Next day, Philip felt well as ever, physically, and bad as 
ever morally ; and in this delightful condition returned to 
Weston. 

He did imagine,* while wandering hopelessly and helplessly 
in Delany’s Cave, a few Jays previously, that should he 
escape the horrible fate that stared him in the face, he would 
willingly thereafter abandon his wickrd a’^d treacherous f)ur-* 
suits, and become a moral man. But n .w he was safe and 
well again, and — “ thought better of it.’ He was already a 
murderer, he reasoned, and his course of life was clearly 
pointed out by Fate; he must continue to lead, a lir(3 of 
crime. He further argued that he was under no obligations 
to Providence for his rescue from the cave ; that he owed all 
to the sagacity of Ned Stanton, John Dufley, and others, 
(though he refused to admit, even to himself, that Ceorge 
Roland tried very hard to find him). 

An apt illustration of his case, is the cant little verse— 

“ When the devil was sick, 

The devil a saint would be; 

When the devil got well, 

The devil a saint was he/* 


TOK WHITE EOCKS. 


22a 


CJHAPTEK XXIIf, 

THE MAI>-DOG>. 

We will now glance briefly at three or four wee Vs follow- 
ing the events narrated in the last chapter. 

The harvest was well-nigh reaped, the grain would soon 
be ready for thrashing, and Philip Kirke began to busy him- 
self making contracts for wheat, rye and corn, for the Pitts- 
burg market. Pie also visited Pittsburg toward the latter 
part of August, and made arrangements with dealers there 
to dispose of the produce. On his return from Pittsburg, he 
gave Mary White several presents which- he had purchased 
there, among which was a spyglass. 

“ With this,” said he, “ you can take an accurate view 
from the White Rocks.” 

Mary thanked him warmly, and assured him that it would, 
be an additional incentive to visit the picturesque observa- 
tory. Ah, what a worthless glass ! It magnified twenty or 
thirty fold, but it did not enable Mary to see the true cha- 
racter of the man to whose keeping she had confided her 
earthly happiness. Nor did it enable her to peer into the 
future, and perceive that itself was an instrument in the 
hands of fare to encompass her destruction. No, it was not 
a magic glass, her eyes were but mortal, and she only the 
more magnified the spirit of the wicked man she loved. 

Philip did not neglect his friends at the den. He visited 
them frequently, sometimes as an equestrian, and sometimes 
as a boatman, always preserving the greatest caution. He 
did not impart to his confederates the full extent of the fear- 
ful peril through which he had passed in Delany’s 


THE MAD-DOa. 


229 


merely stating, in a casual way, that he had come near 
getting lost there : ” nor did he inform them that the day 
was fixed for his marriage; but he did give them to under- 
stand that it would be no special occasion for astonishment 
if they should hear of his “ getting married one of these 
days.” 

As for the robbers, they were not entirely idle, though 
they entertained a “wholesome dread” of the immediate 
locality of Weston. They now made frequent incursions 
into Greene county, which the boat moored in their little 
haven rendered easy. They robbed several houses in the 
vicinity of Waynesburg, succeeding in obtaining a consider- 
able sum of gold and silver; and they also waylaid several 
peddlers and travelers with eminent pecuniary success. All. 
this, however, was in Greene county, and all were led to 
believe that the mysterious robbers had removed to the \vest 
bank of the Monongahela. The people of the Weston settle- 
ment congratulated themselves that the outlaws no longer 
threatened them, little dreaming that their audacious leader 
still made his home at the village tavern. 

George Boland’s Company still retained its organization. 
It was the intention of all its members to make an excursion 
in search of the supposed new rendezvous of the robbers 
when the weather should become a little cooler. George, 
himself, was actuated by the most manly and disinterested 
motives, his chief object being to contribute to the general 
security and welfare of his own and adjoining settlements. 
He did not know then how greatly it would have redounded 
to his own interest and. happiness to have solved at once the 
mystery connected with the unknown robbers, and to have 
brought them all to speedy justice. 

Ned Stanton, notwithstanding his avowed anticipations to 
the contrary, was quite ill for a week after his experiments 
with the rattlesnake; but he never would acknowledge tha’i 
his indisposition was the result of the bite he had receivecL 
He contended that it was occasioned by the warm weatliei, 


230 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


stating that he invariably had a “ little sick spell ” in Au* 
gust, although all who had known him from his childhood 
averred that he had never before been unwell a day. About 
the last of August, having quite recovered, he and his friend 
Dick met one evening at Tony Baily’s, and had a long chat, 
Ned, as usual, doing the most of the talking. 

“ You have not wound up that matter yet, have you ?** 
Dick made out to ask. 

“ You mean what I promised you last fall? — no, not quite; 
but — ’* 

I do n’t suppose there is any danger of — ” 

‘‘ What?” 

“ Getting enamored yourself, you know.” 

“ Me ! Nary time 1 No fear of that, Dickey ! The 
oftener I see her the less likely I am to fall in love with her, 
you may rest assured of that. But I ’m holding off a little, 
you know, that the punishment, when I do administer it, 
may be the more severe ; do n’t you see? Now, the fact is, I 
have made up my mind to bring the matter to a crisis before 
long — sometime this winter, anyhow. I ’ve got the whole 
programme marked down in my upper story, and I ’ll act it 
out, you may depend. My plan is nearly ripe for execution. 
I feel sure she is deeply in love with me now, and in another 
month or so she will adore me — positively adore me ! — for 
I ’m not the worst looking fellow in the world, by any means, 
though I do say it myself ; and I take it that when I under- 
take to make an impression — in fact — But no matter. As 
I was going to remark, just when her affections have risen to 
the loftiest pitch, — ^just when her heart is about to leap out 
with love, and come running at me, — when her hopes ar^ 
scaring to the clouds, — when she is confident from outward 
ir 3 ’cations that I am on t)ie point of proposing, — ay, even 
while her tongue is beginning to move, and her lips to part 
fo’’ the formation of the sweetest ‘ yes, ’ — I ’ll thrus: her 
hopes to the earth. I ’ll coolly say that, if she has no oujec- 
tions, I ’ll withdraw my attentions from her in the future.'; 


THE MAD-DOa. 


231 


thr.t I once thought seriously of matrimony, hut that I’m 
getting rather old now ; that, moreover, I never supposed 
she recognized my devoirs as more than those of a friend. 
Of course she can’t say a word, — she can’t say yes she did, 
or any thing of that sort. Nor can she implore me to think 
better of it, or tell me she loves me, or ask me to marry her, 
’Tis n’t leap-year, anyhow ; and I reckon she possesses too 
much womanly delicacy for that. I say, Dick, old boy, I ’ve 
got her, nice I Won’t you be revenged completely? Hey! 
When she so suddenly and unexpectedly finds that there is 
no hope of a matrimonial alliance with me ; that her last 
chance is gone, and that the life, death and funeral of an old 
maid stares her in the face, — all these horrors bursting upon 
her' startled senses, in one moment, will pay her up most 
delightfully, with compound interest, for all the disappoint- 
ment and pain she once inflicted on you! What do you 
say?” 

Dick nodded solemnly. 

“Well, so it shall be,’* resumed Ned. “When I under- 
take any thing, especially for a friend, it ’s going to be done. 
My plans are arranged, the mine is laid and ready to be 
sprung at the most favorable and eflfective moment, and Ned 
Stanton is the boy to pull the wire ; on that you may depend. 
Oh, Dick, it ’ll be glorious 1 It will be such fun you know. 
I ’ll get half tight, when the time comes, that I may act my 
part to a charm. You may look for glorious news one of 
these days, old fellow! Glori 9 us I — or my name ’s not Ned 
Stanton ! Let ’s take a drink 

After a further discourse of several hours, Ned left for 
home, while Dick repaired to his home. 

At Tony Daily’s things went on as usual. It was a dull 
season of the year with Tony, and at times he felt tempted 
to “ shut shop ” during the day, and repair to some neighbor- 
ing harvest-field. But for travelers who frequently stopped 
over night, and a regular boarder or two, he would hav^ 
tound the hotel business very unprofitable at this time. 


232 


THE WniTE R0CK8. 


Altogether, however, he lived very comfortably the year 
round, within his income ; and good humor and contentment 
were his characteristics. 

John DufFey visited New Market rather oftener than there 
was any obvious call for, and on returning late, as usual, one 
evening, it was his lot again to encounter three highwaymen^ 
one of whom he knocked sprawling with the loaded end of 
his riding-whip, escaping from the others by riding swiftly 
away. The one whom he honored with the blow was Bill 
Hardin, of the cave, whose evil genius he verily seemed to 
be. The ruffian was so enraged that he swore the most hor- 
rible oaths that he would be avenged on the daring young 
man who had so often thwarted him, and whom, on this 
occasion, he recognized. It seems that Bill and two of his 
companions were, on this occasion, waiting for a traveler who 
was to pass that way on the evening in question, and mis- 
taking Duffey for the man attacked him; but he being always 
on the alert, while traveling the country roads after night- 
fall, they only came off second best, as stated. Bill was not 
only aware that John Duffey was one of the two young men 
who had broken his head and carried him a captive to 
Weston, nearly a year before, but he had also learned from 
Philip Kirke, that the same young man was he who thwarted 
the attempt of himself and companions to rob his father’s 
store; and now, that he had a third time received such rough 
treatment at the hands of the offending youth, his rage waa 
almost uncontrollable, bursting forth in the most profuse 
vows of vengeance. 

About the last of August, the security and quiet of the 
public were seriously disturbed by the advent of a rabid dog 
into the Weston settlement. Its victims among the sheep 
and cattle were quite numerous, as also among animals of its 
own race; and, sad enough to relate, one human — a little 
girl of six or seven — fell a victim to the terrible disease of 
hydrophobia. Her fearful sufferings, the dreadful scenes of 
her death struggle, and the heart-rending anguish of her 


THE MAD-DOO. 


235 


parents, brothers and sisters, we would not pain the reader 
by describing. The circumstance was soon noised abroad, 
and the dog, which was still at large, became a ten-fold terror 
to the inhabitants. All who owned, dogs — and nearly evary 
one did — either killed them, fearing that they might have 
been bitten by the mad -dog, or placed them in strict confine- 
ment. Many a poor canine suffered death because he chanced 
to growl at the cat, or because he panted lustily during the heat 
of the day, while his • moist tongue hung from his mouth 
as he lay in the shade — facts which in unsuspicious times 
would have passed unnoticed. But now, every one was on 
the alert. Every one scrutinized closely any ** sagacious 
animal” he chanced to possess; and did he happen to ob- 
serve that the eyes of one looked a little red, or that his 
canineship displayed any sullenness, or the least disposition 
to growl or bark at the feline occupants of the premises, lie 
would regard it as an unmistakable sign of approaching mad- 
ness. Then would follow a mysterious taking down of the 
rifle from its brackets, a careful loading of the same, a walk- 
ing out into some adjacent wood followed by the unsuspecting, 
obedient and doomed animal; and — the sharp crack of a 
rifle : That tells the tale.” 

persons ^\iO at anytime evinced an ill or snappish 
humor were regarded with suspicion, and studiously avoided. 
Hydrophobia was the universal bug- bear from morning till 
night, and even the nocturnal repose of the honest inhabi- 
tants was disturbed by grim visions of the great black mad- 
dog. 


234 


THE WHITE EOCKa. 


• 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE “RAISING.” 

Does the reader know what a “ raising ” is? Has he ever 
witnessed one? — ever participated in one? For the edifica- 
tion of the uninitiated, I will briefly state what a raising is. 

In the rural districts, when a building of any kind is in 
course of construction, and when the timbers are all hewn and 
ready to occupy their places, the neighbors are invited to 
assemble and unite their strength in hoisting them up and 
adjusting them, as intended by the practical architect. 

On such occasions, the owner of the embryo building, as a 
matter of courtesy, furnishes for his neighbors an excellent 
dinner — or supper, as the case may be — and altogether they 
have a good time of it. The greatest merriment always pre- 
vails on such occasions, and a raising is regarded as a real 
recreation. Many years ago, it was the custom to provide, in 
addition to the tempting meal, a quantity of liquor; and so 
the affair usually wound up with considerable of noisy mirth, 
and not unfrequently a fight or two. 

On a pleasant Saturday afternoon in September, there was 
a raising in Weston. Mr, Duffey, the enterprising storekeeper 
of the village, was having erected, near his store, a large build- 
ing, as a receptacle for all kinds of country produce, in which 
he was getting to deal pretty extensively. It was to be a 
frame building, and the girders, beams, braces, plates, posts, 
eWpers, sills and studdings, lay ready, near at hand, to be 
raised to their respective places. All the young men, and 
most of the middle-aged, of the neighborhood were present, 
and it was quite a “big day” in Weston. Muscle was not 


THE “KAISINQ/* 


235 


wanting, and the work was performed in a few hours, without 
the slightest accident. 

When all was finished it wanted yet an hour of the supper 
time, and the men set about spending the interim in drinking 
and gossiping. 

To say that “ a few boys were collected about the point of 
attraction would be rather feeble language, inasmuch as it 
would fall far short of expressing the real state of things with 
legard to the juveniles. All the boys of Weston and the 
immediate neighborhood, six years old and upwards, were 
assembled about the new structure, and anything like a faith- 
ful account of the games of marbles, and the like, played that 
afternoon, and the startling gymnastics performed among the 
naked timbers of the building, as soon as raised, would, of 
itself, constitute a respectable volume. 

Ten minutes had elapsed since the last pin was driven, 
when all were startled by the fearful cry of : 

“ Mad-dog 1 Mad-dog !” 

Probably one-half the crowd had just been discussing the 
interesting subject of the rabid dog, and the cry reached them 
with a novel effect. Men scrambled up and perched them- 
selves among the timbers of the building, some of the large 
boys did the same, while children of various sizes ran scream- 
ing to the nearest houses. Fathers and mothers were seen 
here and there hastily taking their children in from the street, 
after which they locked the doors, just as though the dog 
would be likely to reach up and raise the latches, as a certain 
wolf was once known to do. 

Yes, a large black dog entered the village, at the uppei 
end, and came trotting down the street, his eyes red and glar- 
ing, his tail almost trailing upon the ground, his mouth open, 
and the white foam standing upon his lips, and dropping from 
his protruding tongue. One who had met the untamed lion, 
with unflinching nerve, might well have dreaded an encounter 
with that worse than poisonous monster. 

Several shots were fired at the terrible brute, as he passed 


23G 


THE WHITE HOCKS. 


down tlie street., but without effect ; and he prohahlj would 
have gone through the village unhurt, but that, to the horror 
of all, a little child of three or four years was suddenly 
observed sitting directly in his path, playing with some little 
toy, all unconscious of its danger: seeing which, George 
Roland seized an adz belonging to the carpenter, rushed out 
upon the beast, when he was within a few steps of the child, 
and, with one carefully-aimed blow, stretched him out lifeless. 

The child was one which had strayed away from its home 
in another part of the village, and was thus unobserved by 
its parents. The carcass of the dog was carefully removed 
and buried without the village. 

The excitement occasioned by the mad-dog was beginning to 
subside, and the feast was not quite ready yet, when a coun- 
try lad, of thirteen or fourteen, entered the village, carrying 
upon his arm a basket of watermelons, which he proposed to 
sell. The market proved good, and, of the half dozen his 
basket first contained, he sold three in — to use a mild expres- 
sion— no time. He did a cash business exclusively, and at 
the conclusion of each bargain had the satisfaction of pocket- 
ing a piece of silver, whose value was twelve-and-a-half cents. 
He was certainly doing a thriving business, and all things 
augured well. 

But alas ! what age of the world is there on record during 
which business men were perfectly secure from commercial 
panic ? How little did this youthful financier imagine that a 
dark cloud was about to burst forth in a tempest of fury, to 
accomplish his pecuniary ruin? 

He was about to take a fourth melon from his basket to 
exhibit to a probable customer, when he discovered, to his 
consternation, that instead of three, which he supposed he 
had left, after selling three, and which, by all rules of arith- 
metic, he should have had, only two of the fruit remained. 
In a moment the thought flashed upon him that three and 
two do n’t make six, by any means, and he at once drew the 


THE ''RATSINa.” 


237 


inference that one of the boys who gathered around him had 
basely abstracted one from the basket. 

The panic had come ! 

“Where’s my tother watermelon ?” he fiercely demanded. 

There was no reply ; but an obvious inclination to “ snicker,’* 
on the part of the numerous boys who stood around, rendered 
it pretty clear to the business mind of our young country 
friend that he was the victim of the most foul and barefaced 
hocus pocus. 

“ Where ’s my watermelon?” he repeated, indignantly, set- 
ting down his basket. 

Several of the boys now replied, that they did n’t know — 
indeed they did n’t, nor hadn’t the slightest idea; and they 
winked at one another. 

“ Some feller’s stole it !” vociferated ihe outraged young 
man; “who is it? Show me the boy. I’ll chaw him up I 
I ’ll smash his face ! I ’ll tear — ’ll — ” 

Pop I went the stolen melon, at that moment dropping upon 
the ground and bursting open, having accidentally slipped 
from its place of concealment beneath the coat of the auda^ 
cious thief, a mischievous youth, whose name was Calvir. 
Wistar. 

The murder was out. It was Cal who had stolen the 
melon. The evidence of his guilt had fallen at his feet. 
With the savage energy of an enraged tiger, the country boy 
rushed upon Calvin, who, finding it impracticable to retreat, 
hastily prepared for the onset. A blow or two was struck ; 
then they “ clinched ;” a struggle ensued, and down they 
went, amid the plaudits of the youthful lookers-on, rolling 
over and over, pinching, scratching, biting and “gouging,’* 
with an energy equal to the occasion. It was becoming quite 
interesting, when some of the more sedate interposed, and 
separated the sanguinary combatants. 

Meanwhile, the other boys proceeded to make a quiet 
repast, not only of the melon which had fallen from beneath 
the culprit’s coat, but also of the two remaining in the basket. 


238 


THE WHITE BOCKS. 


Having done so, they proceeded, by way of a little innocent 
eport, +0 “pelt” each other with the disembodied rinds; 
which proved quite an engaging pastime, till Master Henry 
Diiffey (John’s brother) threw a large piece, and struck 
Master Samuel White a rather livelier blow on the chest than 
that gentleman thought the occasion called for. The latter 
accordingly retaliated, by seizing the missile and hurling it 
with all his might at the offender, whom it unfortunately 
struck between the nose and chin. This caused a “coolness” 
to spring up between the two which speedily merged into 
actual anger ; and it was not more than two seconds till they 
began to pomel each other with those “nature’s weapons,” 
fists. They were about equally matched, and the fight might 
have furnished some interesting scientific developments, had 
it been allowed to proceed. 

They were speedily surrounded by the men, some with the 
intention of interfering, and others of seeing the fun. George 
Roland was the first to reach them, and he at once thrust 
them apart. Philip Kirke, however, who had been drinking 
more than usual, came up immediately after, and insisted that 
the boys should be allowed to fight it out. The reason of this 
was, that he imagined young White, who was Mary’s cousin, 
to be gaining an advantage at the moment they were sepa- 
rated, and that George had interfered on that account, with 
a view to giving him (Philip) a little thrust. 

“ The boys shall not fight !” said George. 

“How do you know that?” asked Philip, stung at being 
thus openly and stubbornly opposed. 

“Because I will not allow them,” George responded, still 
Btanding between the juvenile antagonists. 

“But I will,” said Philip. 

“ And I won’t,” retorted George. 

“Oh! you need not think to frighten me,” returned Philip, 
‘‘You have no right to interfere; so, you had better stand 
aside.” 

“ Stand aside I Ha 1 ha I” laughed George. 


THE '‘KAISING.** 


23D 


** Yes, stand aside !” repeated Philip, and he advanced, half 
menacingly. 

‘‘ There will be another fight, if you are not careful,*’ hinted 
George. 

'‘There will, eh! I’m Vill^.g] Come on, yon cursed — ” 

Like a lion, George rushed upon his enemy. He aimed a 
heavy blow at his face, which Philip barely succeeded in 
parrying, and not feeling himself prepared for another, sprang 
backward, and very naturally fell prostrate over Mr. DufFey’s 
cellar- way, which, fortunately for him, happened to be closed. 
Half maddened by this mishap, he sprang to his feet, and 
threw off his coat for a general engagement, determined to 
stand his ground, and fight to the bitter end. But mutual 
friends interposed, and prevented further hostile movements. 
The supper was now announced, the party gathered around 
the long table, which was set in the midst of a little grove of 
fruit trees near Mr. DufFey’s dwelling, and good feeling and 
harmony were soon apparently restored, on all sides. 

The viands and delicacies which had been provided would 
have done no discredit to any table anywhere; and while all 
conducted themselves within the bounds of common etiquette 
and good breeding, there was no unnatural restraint. There 
was hilarity without vulgarity, and the satisfying of good 
appetites without any approach to gluttony ; and, in the midst 
of all, the kind host received that due respect from his guests 
which is prompted by natural good sense and manliness. 

About the time of which we write, a rustic poet flourished 
in Weston. He was a lad of sixteen, whose name we have 
never been able to ascertain. Whenever any amusing or 
ridiculous circumstance occurred at the village, this obscure 
Byron was sure to “get up” a “good thing” on it. After 
much difficulty, we have succeeded in obtaining a copy of an 
elaborate “ article ” he wrote on the affair which we have just 
described, and it may not be out of place to insert it here. 


m 


THE WHITE E0CK8. 


••THE WATERMELON RIOT. 

•• This place can ’t very well be beat 
For brawls and riots in the street; 

And I will tell you of a fight 
That did the people all excite. 

•* There was a raising in the town, 

Which called the folks from miles arotinJj 
And men and boys from far and near, 

To have a time, had gathered here, 

A country boy, to make it pay. 

Brought watermelons here that day. 

He took them in the crowd to sell, 

And for a while succeeded well. 

•• As melons come but once a year, 

And consequently sell quite dear. 

Cal Wistar thought it would be fua 
To hook the very nicest one. 

••So, while the boy was making sal®. 

Cal slipped one under his coat-tail, 

And when the owner saw ’twas gone, 

Stood innocently looking on. 

•• The melon-boy began to swear, 

To stamp, and foam, and rave, and tear; 
•Show me,’ he cried, ‘ the sneakin* felon 
That ’s took an’ stole my watermelon 1* 

•• Just then there was a rousing pop I 
For Cal had let the melon drop ; 

The boy then forward stepped a pace. 

And hit him, zip ! upon the face. 

There was some savage fighting then. 
Which soon attracted all the men. 

Who rushed to where they heard the noisi^ 
And thrust apart the angry boys. 

•• Meanwhile the town-boys gathered all. 

And ate the melon Cal let fall; 

Then straightway to the basket flew. 

And soon devoured the other two. 


THE “EAISINQ/* 


241 


** So, when this cruel deed was done, 

They thought to have a little fun; 

They threw the melon-rinds around, 

Pelting each other most profound 

“ Now, Henry Duffey raised a hght, 

For with a rind ho hit Sam White, 

Who picked it up — oh, sheer disgrace!— 
And slammed it in Hen Duffey’s face. 

Then was there an astounding fight 
Between Hen Duffey and Sam White; 

Down they went, rolling on the ground, 
While quite a crowd collected round. 

George Roland quickly stopped the fray, 

But Kirke told him to go away ; 

Thus followed soon a bigger row, 

For those two men got at it now. 

** George Roland fiercely blazed away, 

But Phil knocked off his lick, they say. 
Then backward sprang, and jumped clean 
The top of Duffey’s cellar-door; 

•‘Then called his foe a ‘ tarnal cuss,* 

And swore he ’d have a real muss ; 
Straightway he threw aside his coat, 

Just as George took him by the throat. 

•• But when their wrath was clearly seen, 

The crowd of people jumped between. 

And said they should not fight it out, 

For fights enough had been about. 

“ So Kirne put on his coat again; 

George Roland, too, cooled down — and then. 
From what I hear I ’m led to tliink. 

The whole crowd went and took a drink. 

“ It was a watermelon, then. 

That caused the row ’mong boys and me*. 

If melons raise such squabbles here, 

I ’m glad they come but once a yearj* 


16 


242 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

A TERRIBLE NIGHT. 

Now, as it was a kind of holiday, Ned Stanton considered 
it a perfectly justifiable occasion for getting very drunk, and, 
therefore, did. He imbibed with very little restraint during 
the whole afternoon, and when supper came, and he sat down 
among the rest to discuss the viands and the delicacies, he 
was only enabled to find the way to his mouth by his long 
familiarity with that road. Nor was he quite infallible on 
that point, notwithstanding the innumerable journeys he had 
4nade during his career from time to time ; for i^ ’s on re- 
cord that on this occasion he several times fell short of tlie 
desired point by some inch or so, landing a forkful of vege- 
tables fairly upon his chin, to say nothing of the spilling of 
half a cup of tea on his plate, fondly imagining that it was 
flowing graciously down his throat. 

When supper was over he felt wild enough for the mad- 
dest project the human mind might suggest. Had an enter- 
prise been set on foot to remove the mountains, he would 
have jumped at the task. He experienced that lofty delight, 
that reckless, do n’t-care-for-anything happiness, that uncom- 
promising, invincible, imperturbable gloriousness that only a 
deep imbiber of ardent spirits can ever realize. Had some 
“fighting crowd” from another village appeared on the scene 
and introduced a free fight, how he would have delighted to 
set himself against ten or fifteen at once. But none were 
present save the boys of the Weston neighborhood, and they 
were all friends. The little affair of the watermelon afforded 
no opportunity 'for him. Besides, he looked upon that aa 


A TERRIBLE NIGHT. 


243 


merely a little entertainment among themselves. Once he 
had half a mind to steal away from Weston, walk to Waynes- 
bur^' tnat evening yet — as it was only about twenty miles — 
and undertake the task of lamming all the rowdies of that 
neighborhood, beginning with Job Welles. This idea, how- 
ever, he discarded, on the ground that they might hear of his 
approach and evacuate, and that thus he would have his walk 
for nothing. No, he would postpone that enterprise. 

By and by a more glorious scheme presented itself. Was 
he ever in a better plight, a more favorable mood — would he 
ever be again? — to enact the final scene in the programme 
which he had arranged to avenge his friend Dick ? Capital 
thought! 

Nes Tanton,'* he muttered to himself, as he walked from 
Mr. Duffey’s porch, (for intoxication was seldom known to 
retard his locomotion) — “ Nes Tanton, you ’r ’t rump, you r 
’oss, you ’r ’tiger ! Now ’s ’time t’wind ’t up. T’day ’s th ’day. 
Now ’r never. G’up t’ Ir’ation’s, ole boy, n see ’r lady — M’s 
Tilly Tate. Tell ’r ’r’ done ’r — ’t ’r’ don’ lov ’r — ’t ’r ’n ever 
did — (hie — wU, ’ear!) — ’t’r’n’ ever ’ill, ’t’s more o’t. Bias 
t’r’opes frever. Glor’s ! Wliat’r say n, Es Tanton ? ’Greed, 
ha? Tha’s . 50 . Ver’ well. Walk ’ll d’ j^e good. ’Side?, y’r 
’oss ’is ’t ’ome. ’Taint fr; n’t mor’n sis mile. C’n walk ’t 
’n ’n ’our. S’ way w’ go. C’m ’long, Nes Tanton — (hie, ode 
’ear !) — c’m ’long ; ’s s’ day’s date ’fore you. C’m’ ’long.” 

Thus conversing with hiniseH*, the inebriate Ned took his 
way unobserved from the village, and was soon walking alone 
out the mountain road 

When he had traveled three or four miles, the liquor he 
had drank began to lose its stimulating effect ; his hilarity 
and general elevation of inward feeling melted away, and 
quite the contrary state of things began to be imminent, 
including an undue depression of spirits, an uncomfortable 
sensation in the inner man about twelve inches below the 
chin, and an unaccountable disposition of trees and other 
gurrounding objects to circumambulate with a strange dauc- 


244 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


ing molion. The result of all this was that Ned spontane- 
ously lay down upon the green-sward at the road-side, with a 
view' to lasting fora “few minutes.” He did rest awhile, 
with his eyvo shut, and with his ears, in fact, not particu- 
larly attentive to such sounds as might be heard in the 
vicinity. The sun went down; the twulight came and faded; 
the dusk of the ''vening hovered over the fields — then dark- 
ness; and still the “few minutes” had not quite passed 
away. The wdiip-poor-will W'as heard in the adjacent woods, 
as also was the hooting owd ; the frogs, the crickets, sung 
their accustomed nocturnal songs , small branches of trees^ 
here and there, rustled slightly, as the wungs of the bat flut- 
tered among them ; the stars shone out as was their w^ont — 
and it wms night. 

“ Where the deuse am I ?’* 

Such w^.as the exclamation of one Edward Stanton as a 
dull headache aroused him from oblivion, and 'he found him- 
self lying prone upon his back, and the dew of night resting 
upon his countenance, while innumerable bright little stars 
looked reproachfully down upon him from the dark sky above^ 

“ In the name of brandy-and-sugar, w'here am I ?” he re- 
peatetl, arising to a sitting posture. 

He did not know” where he was, and there was no 
one there to tell him. The only response was the scream of 
an owl in a tree near by, which, at least, convinced him that 
be was not in bed. 

“Whew!” he exclaimed, ^ as a slight recollection of the 
evening’s proceedings daw'ned upon him. “Whew! what a 
darned fool I have been ! I remember now ; I started to visit 
Miss Tilly Tate, and here I am, half way to the mountain, 
lying in a fence-corner like a swine, and no knowing w”hat 
time of night it is. It may be to-morrow morning, for all I 
know; or, indeed, I may have slept here for tw”enty-four 
hours, and this may be to-morrow night. And here I have 
lain, like a beast of the field, in a drunken sleep, while hours 
have passed away, while decent men are ia their beds, and 


A TERRIBLE NIGHT. 


245 


lo! tlie very stars are looking down with unmistakable loath- 
ing. Oh, Ned, Ned ! dri»k is a good thing — glorious-^if you 
only use it right ; but get to abusing it, and it will turn 
against you like any dear friend, and bring misery upon 
you ! Oh, dear, I would give twenty dollars, and leave off 
drinking for three weeks in the bargain, to be in my bed. 
Will I consummate my errand now? Will I proceed to tlie 
mountain and see Tilly ? I reckon not. Did she know of 
this, however she may regard me, I fear she would steal a 
march on me by informing me that any further attention of 
mine would be entirely repugnant to her. Well, I must get 
out o’ this and make for home. What if daylight should 
come before I get there, and I should meet some one of the 
neighbors just going out to catch a horse, or drive the cows 
up, or something of that sort, and he should open his eyes 
and mouth, stare me out of countenance, and say, ‘ Thunder, 
Ned! Where you been?* Oh, earth, what could I say? 
Why nothing — could only stand struck dumb, with nothing 
to say, and not a word to say ii with, which would be some- 
thing so remarkable for me that I would be taken for mad. 
Oh, dear, I wonder how wanes the night.” And he arose 
and took his way homeward, experiencing blnenese ” that 
rivaJ-ed the very darkness of the night for gloom. 

He had not gone far 'svhen a stray thought of mad'dogs 
entered his head. He had an indistinct recollection that one 
had been in the /illage that afternoon, but he failed tore- 
member that George Eoland had killed it; and now he ^egan 
to feel really uneasy at the thought of meeting it. Feeling 
gloomy as he did, his mind was the very home for such dark 
thougnts, and, as he walked on, a dread came upon him, and 
he glanced uneasily to the right and the left, surveying every 
stump, log and bush with a suspicious eye. There were few 
Hiings he feared, few forms of death from which he would 
have shrunk in terror ; but a mad-dog was so different from 
everything else, and, as he thought of the appalling story of 
the sufferings and death of the little girl who had lately be»n 


246 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


a victim to hydrophobia, he might have exclaimeil, with 
Macbeth : • 

“ Wliat man dare, I dare : 

Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, 

The arm’d rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger; 

Take any shape but that, and my firm nervea 
Shall never tremble.” 

With such ruminations Ned walked home rather rapidly; 
and was just emerging from a little grove of trees, within a few 
hundred yards of his father’s house, when he was somewhat 
startled by the sudden appearance of a dark object in the 
road, a few paces in advance. Coming to an abrupt stand' 
still, his consternation was heightened by perceiving that the 
dark object was approaching him. What could it be but a 
mad-dog? — the same one that made a raid into the village? 
With an agility which he had not displayed since he was a 
boy, Ned sprang aside and climbed a sapling, whose strength 
W’as barely sufficient to support his weight, and whose height 
barely elevated him beyond the reach of a dog. He fondly 
hoped that the animal would pass on, that he might speedily 
descend from his irksome j erch and repair to his home. But 
no; the stubborn creature, which Ned now cLarly saw was 
a dog, came straight to the roots of the sapling, and there 
etopped. 

“ Get out, you rascal !” shouted Ned. 

The reply was a strange kind of whine, which Ned felt 
Bure no sane dog would ever utter. 

“Get out, I say! Get out! Begone, you scoundrel, be- 
gone ! Get away ! Go ’long with you !” he shunted, savagely, 
surging the sapling to and fro, and rattling its branches, in 
the hope of intimidating the monster. 

But as he did so the sapling almost bent to the earth be- 
neath his weight, and he observed with horror that the fero- 
cious beast attempted to seize his coat-tail. 

“Get out! Get out!” he shcuted again. “Oh, ^yhat a 
predicament for an honest man to be in 1” 


A TERRIBLE NIGHT. 


247 


A low growl and a singular bark were the response of the 
fiend in canine form.. 

“ Oh, what can I do?” said Ned. “ If I only had a club, 
a brick, half a fence-iail, or some such light w^eapon, I would 
soon knock the rascal ; but here I am treed, yes, trced^ with 

00 weapons save my knife and a tooth-pick, and I dare not 
meet the monster in an encounter so close that I could use 
them. A single scratch from one of his poisonous teeth, and, 
although I should afterwards kill him and cut him up into 
sausage-meat, it would be all up with me. Nay, more than 
up. The horrible death from hydrophobia — wmrse than a 
thousand ordinary deaths — I dare not think of, much less 
brave. Oh — get out ! Go awmy ! Help ! Murder ! Mad-dogs 1 
Help! He;p!” 

About this time the dog executed a succession of curious 
gyrations, among w^hich was his springing against the sapling 
as though to ascend like a cat, at the same time giving utter- 
ance to a low growd or two, that made the wretched Ned 
shudder. He fondly hoped that some one might hear his 
voice and come to the rescue; but no succor came ; no an- 
swering voice was heard in the still night. Poor Ned was 
left to the mercy of the most terrible of terrible creatures. 

Well,” said he, in a tone of calm resignation, ** all I can 
do is to wait till this demon goes away, or till the morning 
comes. When the day approaches he will surely run awa^ ; 
or, if not, some one will pass along the road whom I can send 
up to the house to get my gun and shoot him. Very well, 

1 ’ll be patient, I wisli I had just one glass to keep out the 
dew^; and I wish I had something to read to pass the time 
aw^ay.” • 

He must have forgotten that it was rather dark to read 
when he made this observation. 

“Bow-wow^!” suddenly barked the dog, making a frantic 
spring toward the treed man. 

Ned imagined that he felt the monster’s hot breath on the 
toe of his boot, it came so noai reaching -him ; and he hastily 


248 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


gathered up his feet, and compressed his form into the small- 
est possible space. 

“ Get out ! Go away, you rascal ! I ’ll kill you !” shrieked 
Ned, daring, in his extremity, to hope that a rabid dog would 
appreciate such a threat. 

The animal did not “ get out ” nor go away, but remained 
in that immediate locality, snuffing tne air, whining, growl- 
ing, and, now and then, as Ned thought, eating a stone of a 
pound or so by way of pastime. 

“Oh, that the morning would come!” ejaculated Ned, as 
the perspiration started from his frame ; “ how gladly would I 
hail the break of day, the early dawn, the rising sun I Ha ! 
A new ideal It is customary for men to get up in the morn- 
ing; but when the morning comes, I must get down. Oh, 
what a new system of repose 1 Perched on a slender sap- 
ling, with a mad-dog snapping his foaming teeth at your 
toes and coat-tails 1 Was mortal man ever before in such a 
strait? I pause for reply. But patience; I must bide my 
time. Roll on, weary, weary hours 1 Hasten,' lazy orb of 
day, and peep above the mountain top ; for till then there is 
ro pe ice, no rest, no security for this unfortunate, benighted, 
besieged, treed individual!” 

Slowly the hours dragged by, the night wore away, and 
griy glowing streaks, that stretched themselves along the 
summit of the mountain, announced the approach of day. 
>V1 en the broad light once more revealed the things of earth, 
with what indescribable emotions did Ned Stanton discover 
that it was not a mad-dog which had kept him treed during 
the greater part of the night, but his own faithful, loving 
dog, Watch ! That noble creature, finding, in the course of 
the night, that his prodigal master had not returned, had 
started in search; and meeting him as described, and seeing 
birr spring aside and mount a tree, jumped to the conclusion 
that he was drunk, as usual ; and regarded it as a clearly 
incumbent duty t*o remain near him till he should become 
sober. . Hence, poor Watch had remained under the sapling 


A TERRIBLE NIGHT. 


249 


all tlie while, whining anxiously, and playing uneasily about, 
hoping every moment to see Ned recover his right mind and 
descend. The springing up on the part of Watch, which had 
caused Ned such terror, was merely an effort to make himself 
known. As for his taking an early breakfast of soft stones, 
Ned did not see that; he merely heard the noise, and im- 
agined the action. 

Ned’s first impulse, on descending from the sapling, was to 
procure a “ shillalah.” and present the dog with a profound 
“lathering;” but then he remembered that the faithful ani- 
mal had only done what he supposed to be his duty, and 
thought better of it. Moreover, Watch manifested such 
delight when he came down, capering about, and fondling 
upon him, that he could not find it in his heart even to speak 
unkindly to him. 

“ You ’re a good, faithful fellow,” said he, patting the dog 
upun the head. “Noble Watch! I have beaten you here- 
tofore, but I will never do so again. Come, let us go home.*’ 

Side by side the two walked up the road toward the 
house, tne dog looking satisfied and happy, like one that 
had done his duty; Ned looking sad and crestfallen, like 
one that had n’t. When they reached home, the folks were 
not stirring yet, it being Sunday morning. Ned entered 
quietly through one of the back windows and went to bed ; 
and that day, it was a thing unaccountable to his Tcspected 
parent;*, that he slept half a day longer than was his wont. 


250 


THE WHITE EOCES. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

ANOTHEE PLOT. 

About the middle of October, Philip Kirke visited the 
lobbers’ den. It was a pleasant day, and he and his con- 
federates sat conversing for a long time among the thick 
foliage that clothed the bluff, and hung, still green with 
summer’s hue, about the mouth of the cave. The frost, with 
his withering breath, had not yet visited the Monongahela, 
and the earth and air were more like the earth and air of 
moderate summer than of autumn. Not a leaf had yet 
faded, or even changed its color by the slightest tinge ; nor 
did the birds seem fewer now than during the past three 
months. The sun shone warmly, and a most healthful 
breeze, kissing the pure fresh water of the river, swept 
gently the face of the steep declivity. 

“ After all. Bill,” observed Philip, sentimentally, ** October 
is the pleasantest month of the year.” 

“Well,” replied his highly non-romantic lieutenant, “any 
weather ’t ’s not too cold or too hot for business is the de- 
lightfulest an’ gloriousest weather in the wmrld. Them my 
ideea.” 

There was a pause of a few minutes, during which all 
gazed complacently out upon the surface of the Monongahela. 

“ Bill,” said Philip, “ I believe that jug you keep in the 
cave is inexhaustible.” 

“Entirely so, captain; will you bave a drink?’* 

“ Yes, let us all imbibe.” 

The jug was brought out, and all drank. 

“That’s excellent, Bill,” observed Philip; “where did it 
come from?” 


ANOTHER PLOT. 


251 


“ From old Israel Crow’s,” was the repl^. 

Some of his own distilling, no doubt.” 

“ Yes, sartin. I think we ort to patternize uim after this. 
What d’ ye say ?” 

“ I think so, too.” 

Feeling somewhat elated by the beverage, they sat for 
several minutes as a man might sit on the verandah of hia 
hotel, enjoying the pure air, and the delightful prospect 
generally. 

“ Bill,” said Philip, abruptly, “ there ’s a villain in the 
settlement, whose very presence is like poison to me — or, 
rather, like some foul vapor in the air I breathe. Should I 
see him cut down, thrust into the earth, and covered up with 
the clods, it would be a far happier day to me than my wed- 
ding-day can ever be.” 

“ Who is he?” asked Bill, 

“ A reptile, of whom I have told you before — an envious, 
meddling, malicious fool — Eoland. I hate him, I despise 
him, I almost fear him. Since the day I had the quarrel 
with him — the day of the raising, of which I told you — I 
feel as though I can never live till he is dead — yes, dead. I 
have more than one reason for feeling so.” 

“ What is your reasons ? Let ’s hear ’em.” 

“ Why, you see, aside from the malignity he displayed that 
day, he gave me a look which said, as plainly as words : ‘ Be- 
ware, Phil Kirke ! I have my eye on you: I ’ll watch you.* 
But for a second thought, I would have shot him.” 

“ It ’s well enough you did n’t, I s’pose.” 

“Yes; had I done so, it would have gone hard with me. 
I had plenty of friends there so long as a square fight waa 
the word ; but they would not have borne me out in an act 
of that kind. I would have been arraigned for murder.” 

“ And hung,” suggested Bill, thoughtfully. 

“ Yes, no doubt.” 

“D’ye think the feller railly suspicions ye?” 

“ I lialf believe he does, though what the cause is I cannot 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


f>tcy 

imagine. He has never seen anything in my deportment 
which would be ground for suspicion; and yet that look 
cannot be misunderstood.** 

“Then, why don’t you fix him some dark night!** 

“Why, the fact is, it would be very unsafe for me. Every 
one knows that we are bitter enemies, and that we would 
probably kill one another if we dare ; and should his body 
be found some fine morning, lying along the road between his 
house and the village, with a stab, or a bullet-hole — ’* 

“ That ’s the style.” 

“ — Why, persons would naturally ask, from mere curiosity, 
where I was during the night. Could I prove that all the 
night I was at Tony’s, suspicion could never point to me ; 
but should it be brought to mind that I was absent an hour 
or two, it would place me in an awkward position.” 

“ That’s a fact.” 

“ Now, there is another fellow in Weston whom you have 
reason to hate.” 

“Who is that?” asked Bill, eagerly. 

“ John Duffey.” 

“ Curse him I” exclaimed Bill, vehemently. ** I like him 
BO well I could eat his heart for supper I” 

“He has always stood in your way,” suggested Philip; 
“ has met you at every turn, to thwart you, during the last 
year. I think he was born to be your enemy ; he is always 
in your way.” 

“ If I git a chance, I ’ll make him stand out o’ my way, 
and every body elses, for ever!” 

“ That opportunity is within your grasp.** 

“How? When?” 

“ To-morrow night he and my particular enemy will be 
traveling on a lone road together.” 

“ What road ?” 

“ The road between New Market and Weston. To-morrow 
there is to be a horse-race at New Market, and Dufley and 
Roland are going. The race is not to come off until the 


ANOTHER PLOT. 


255 


afternoon, and they will be in the night returning. Do fou 
understand ?” 

‘Don’t ir 

“You are, I believe, familiar with all the public roadi for 
miles round ?’* 

“ Yes.” 

“ And especially that road?” 

“ Yes, ’specially.” 

“Then — there are five of you here — ^let four of yoiip)st 
yourselves at a favorable point on the road and wait fo\ itie 
two rats, while the fifth remains at home. What do you 
Bay ?” 

“ Agreed.” 

“All willing, boys?” 

The other ruffians signified their assent. 

“ Who ’s to stay at home?” asked Joe. 

“ You may decide that among yourselves.” 

“ Draw cuts,” suggested Sam. 

“The four ’o you may draw cuts,” said Bill; “as foi me, 
I ’m considered one ’o the party, in course.” 

“Yes,” said Philip, “you must go.” 

“ Hur, I have the cuts,” said one of the Busters, holding 
in his hand four twigs. “ Who ’ll hold ’em?” 

“I will,” said Philip. 

“ Whoever gits the shortest will stay at home an* keep 
house,” said Bill. 

The lots were drawn, and it fell upon one of the brothers 
to remain at the cave while the bloody deed should be trans- 
acted. 

“ I ’spose I must ’bide,” he remarked ; “ but I ’d rather 
’gage in the fun.” 

“ Has the game nny valuables about ’em?” queried Sam. 

“Yes,” returned Philip, “T think you will find enough 
on their persons to pay for your trouble. They both carry 
plenty of money when they go to a place of that kind, — a 
ho/'se-race, — and they will no doubt carry, besides, hanckomo 


254 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


pistols, wliicli I know they possess; of which, hj the way, 
beware.” 

“ We ’ll watch ’em,” returned Bill. 

“ If you are discreet, you will incur no risk.** 

“ But ’spose there ’d be more ’n two of ’em? What *f some 
others would be with ’em,” suggested Sam. 

“ Why, should that be the case, you will discover it on 
their approach, an”^ you need not attack them. I am sure, 
however, that there will be but these two, and from them 
you have nothing to fear.” 

“ I ’d say not,” observed Bill. 

“ How did you find out they was a goin’ ?” asked one of 
the others. 

“ I heard them talk of it in the tavern last evening. They 
asked several others to accompany them,'but all refused, on 
the ground of not having the time to spare. Roland, it 
seems, has some errand to perform there, so that, by going on 
the day of the race, he can kill two birds with one stone. 
As for your' man, young DuflPey, he has a pretty girl over 
there whom he is courting, and whom, it is said, he intends 
to marry : who do you think it is?” 

“ How ’d I know ?” 

“Well, it is no other than the daughter of the man whom 
he and a companion rescued from your hands about a year 
ago, on the New Market and Brownsville road,** 

“ Whew I — is it possible ?” 

“ Yes, so I have been told.** 

“ An’ that’s what started the love, I *spect. Wery well. 
Ha! ha! In love ! Oh, bless his young heart!” 

“Yes,” returned Philip, smiling, “in love.” 

“ Oh, the young cuss,” said Bill, grinding his teeth, “1*11 
cut his love dreams short! Wont I pay him for the blow he 
gave me over the head a month or two ago ! and wont I pay 
him for what he done about a year ago ! and — ** 

“ Fur shootin’ at us when we was peaceably follerin’ our 
lawful an’ rightful business,'' put in Sam, • 


ANOTHER PLOT. 


255 


•* An’ thereby willfully causin’ the loss of our hats, an files 
nil’ other harmless things,” suggested Joe. 

“ Yes, we ’ll pay him up for all. A big debt, but we ’ll pay 
it,” said Bill, who seemed to be honestly inclined with re- 
gard to that business transaction. 

“Whatever you do,” enjoined Philip, “don’t let i?o ^a7i a 
escape. Pie is the bane of my life. He must die.'' 

“Never fear,” returned Bill. “He’ll die, an* bo will 
t’ other. But what must we do with ’em?” 

“ I think you may safely leave them lie where yon kill 
them. In fact, there is no reason why further trouble should 
be had with them; they, are not worth it. ,One thing is cer- 
tain, the people will never suspect me for it, and they can 
never find you." 

“That’s certain. They will be apt to have a fine hunt 
all over Greene county for the murderers,” chuckled Bill; 
“ but we ’ll be keerful to stay ,at home for a while arter. 
They wont think ’o lookin’ on this side ’o the river.” 

“ So you must. I will visit you cautiously, and bring you 
the news in a day or two. By the way, I am going to Pitts- 
burg, in a w^eek or ten days, with a load of grain, and if 
there is anything you need which I can get you there I will 
get it. However, I will be here again before I go, and you 
can then tell me what you want, if anything.” 

“Wery well. When you come agin I will give you a 
inventory of some useful things I need for the carryin’ on ’o 
business, — some articles to make up for what we lost in 
Weston last May. Are you goin’ to take a keel boat down 
the river?” 

* No ; one or two fiat-boats will carry the grain I have.” 

“How much have ym?” 

“ By the time I am ready to go I will have more than tv:o 
tho’.isand bushels. I ’ll make about six hundred dollars on it. 
I mide three hundred on what I took down a week ago. My 
expenses are very light. I hire three or four men to push 
the boats down and back, and them I pay only ten dollars a 
piece.” 


256 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


“You’re a enterprisin’ member ’o the firm,” ob^eryed Bill, 
h. a complimentary tone. 

After some further discussion of trivial m^tterd, Philip 
took his leave. 

“ Remember to-morrow night, and make sure work of it : 
let neither of the tv/o ever see another sun,” was his parting 
injunction. 

“ It ’ll be done to-night,” was the reply. 

Philip climbed to the top of the bluffy and struck off 
through the woods toward the main road. 

He was now a plotting murderer. Observe how he had 
gi own in vice and crime. He had now become far more hard- 
ened and unscrupulous than when we first made his acquaint- 
ance. He was then an accidental murderer; now he was a will- 
ful and deliberate one. He had not hastily taken this step. 
He had considered long first. But, finally, both to satisfy re- 
vengeful feelings, and promote his own security, he had de- 
cided to make use of his willing tools to rid himself of a 
hated and probably dangerous enemy. And in order to 
secure most unreservedly the services of his confederate, 
Bill, he had willingly agreed to sacrifice, with that enemy, a 
young man who had never harmed him, never crossed him^ 
never threatened him by word or look. But we shall soon 
Fee how that, to avert a new threatening danger from himself, 
he went to a still greater length. 

When he reached the public road, a figure of a man — the 
very same that crouched in the bushes on the night of the 
graveyard affair a year before — might have been seen stand- 
ing in the midst of a cluster of sai 'ings that grew near the 
road. Philip was busy with his dark thoughts, and did not 
see it ; but it saw him — did that mysterious figure. It 
watched him so long as he was within sight; and it thought 
strange that Philip had come so far for a ramble. By and by, 
it plunged into the deep woods, and wandered strangely 
about, “as if in quest of something,” during the whole of 
the remaining day. 


liVJENTFUL DAY, 


257 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

AN EVENTFUL DAY. 

**Ha! ha! Gv>od for the little bay horse! I’ll bet a 
new hat on the bay, if you dare!” exclaimed John Duiiey, 
as the two swift horses went flying round the race-course. 

“ Done 1” retorted George Roland. “ A new hat on the 
black 1 Hurrah for the black I See how he spreads him- 
self!” 

“No, the bay will win; for see how he stretches himself!’ 
persisted John DufFey. “ Hurrah for the bay ! Hurrah!” 

Away sped the nimble horses around the prescribed ring, 
side by side, — their riders scarcely daring to breathe for fear 
of retarding their motion. In three successive courses round 
the wide ring were the horses to test their moving qualities 
Heavy wagers were laid on the result, and each rider wa 
determined his animal should win. , 

“ Once around, and black ahead !” shouted George Roland, 
as the tw’o horses swept past the stand. 

“ The bay will make it up before they go round again,” 
DufFey returned. “ Only half a tail’s length behind, and 
gaining 1” 

Away they went flying around the beaten track like mad, 
and in a few minutes again shot past the stand — perfectly 
abreast. 

“ Even!” was shouted on all sides. “ Even 1 Not a hair’s 
difference ! Hurrah for the third round 1” 

“ The black will win,” said George. 

“ No, the bay ! Hurrah for the bay and a new hat !” 

Another round, and, the hones, with main and tail flowing 
wildly in the wind, their eyes and nostrils distended, and 


258 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


every muscle strained, reached the stand for the last time*- 
the bay a few feet in advance. 

“ Hurrah for the bay 1” shouted a multitude of voices. 
** Hurrah! Hurrah!” 

‘‘ Good for the bay !” said Duffey. 

“You’ve won the hat,” remarked George: “shall it be a 
black one?” 

“ No, a bay one,” returned John. 

A great concourse of people thronged the vicinity of the 
race-course, and for a time the noise and confusion were 
almost intolerable. Here and there were heard shouts of 
merriment, or loud altercations; to add to the general inte- 
rest of the occasion, a few innocent personal encounters were 
improvised. 

“Now, I just wonder if Job Welles don’t happen to be 
here to-day,” John Duffey abruptly observed, as the thought 
for the first time occurred to him. 

“ The fellow who had your horse last fall ?” 

“ Yes.” 

No doubt he is. He is usually present on such occasions, 
I am told, when within any reasonable distance.” 

“Well, this cannot be more than a dozen miles from where 
he lives; he would not allow that distance to prevent hia 
seeing a famous horse-race.” 

“No, indeed : he is here, you may depend.” 

“ And should we meet him, he will recognize me, and I 
may make up my mind to catch it.” 

“Not all yourself. I hope I may be allowed to sustain a 
portion of the ills in store.” 

“ No, if we meet him, you must not interfere ; it would 
only make it worse for both of us ; for no doubt he will have 
his crowd with him.” 

“ I scarcely think I should stand quietly by and see you 
mauled out of your boots,” returned George. 

Thus conversing, our Weston friends were strolling leisurely 


AN EVENTFUL DAY. 


259 


around the race-course, when they were abruptly confronted 
by the redoubtable Job Welles and half a dozen of his party. 

Ha ! ha I How do you do ?” exclaimed Job, with a demo- 
niac grin on his countenance, and an exultant glance of his 
evil eye. “ I believe I have the pleasure o’ yer acquaint- 
ance.” 

“I really hope so; for you are such a good-looking man 
that I would be proud to number you among my most inti- 
mate friends. I may, at least, presume to take the liberty of 
hoping that you are quite well.” 

“ Quite well, thank yv>u — specially my hand, which I got 
hurt, a year or two ago, by the merest accident. It has now 
got very well again — better ’n ever, in fact,” returned Job, in 
a significant tone. 

“I presume that your general health is good,” coolly 
observed John, pretending not to notice the insinuation. 

“ Oh ! elegant,” returned Job, almost with enthusiasm. I 
do n’t think I have felt so well as I do now since I got over 
the measles.” 

The rufiians who accompanied Job now chuckled, and 
winked at each other, in a very becoming style. George 
Koland, who knew at a glance who Job was, stood quietly by, 
listening to the decorous confab. 

I am truly glad to hear it,” returned the imperturbable 
Dufiey; “I cannot imagine anything that would give me so 
much pain as to learn at any time you were very ill — lying 
at the point of death, for instance.” 

*‘I alius knowed that,” returned Job; “an’ I try to pre- 
serve my health, an’ take the bulliest care o* myself, jist on 
your account.” 

“ I appreciate your noble, magnanimous, and self-denying 
spirit, and do hereby take the greatest pleasure in bidding 
you a good afternoon,” said DufFey, as he and George made a 
move to pass on. 

“ ’Xcuse me, my good feller,” said Job; “but, to tell the 
truth, I think too much of you to part with you so soon. T 


260 


THE WHITE BOCKS. 


know you won’t think hard o* me if I keep you here jist a fe^ 
minutes.” 

Job’s admiring followers now chuckled, winked at each 
other, and looked very happy. 

“A few minutes,” returned Duffey. “Exactly. Merely 
till you settle that little horse affair with me. That is what 
you mean, Job Welles. Now, go to work, as soon as you 
please. I am perfectly willing to assist you.” 

“ Well, it ’ll be settled now, in a darned short time,” said 
Job, deliberately proceeding to doff his coat. 

By this time the attention of outsiders had been attracted, 
and the group was fast swelling into a throng. 

“ Well, sir, the play could not well proceed without me, as 
I have an important part to act,” observed Duffey, coolly cast- 
ing aside his own superfluous raiment. 

“Hold on, Duffey,” said George Roland. “You are not 
large enough to fight that big ruffian ; and he is a coward to 
attempt to bully you. Stand aside, and, if he wants a fight, 
I am his man.” 

“Ohl” sneered a brutal-looking fellow of Job’s crowd, 
“you kin have a fight, too, if you want it. Yes, an’ a dozen 
more sich fellers as you.” 

“All Weston, if they was here,” added another. 

“You cowardly dogs!” exclaimed George, advancing, “you 
well know that we two are the only Weston men here to-day, 
and you think to set on us with the odds in your favor. Come 
on ; I can lick the whole thieving gang of you 1” 

“ Never mind,” urged Duffey, “ there is no use raising a 
regular riot. This fellow, Welles, wants to fight me. Let 
him come on; I will give him satisfaction.” And John con- 
fronted the stout ruffian. 

“ No, you must not,” said George, drawing his friend back. 
“Job Welles, will you fight me?” 

“ Curse you 1 To the — ” 

“What’s all this about?” interrupted a stentorian voice 
among the crowd. “Who wants to fight? I’m on hand! 


AN EVENTFUL DAY. 


261 


Hilloa ! my old friend J ob Welles ! Ha 1 ha ! Joby, may be you 
would like to try on me again what you tried in Weston once. 
Here I am, cut and dried, smoked and laid up on a shelf for 
you.” And Ned Stanton, accompanied by Will Hempstead, 
plunged through* the crowd, and confronted the burly form of 
Job Welles.” 

“What! You here, Ned I” exclaimed Duffey and Eoland, 
in a breath. 

“Yes, we heard you had come over; and thinking you 
might meet this scape-gallows and his crowd of thieves, we 
came over to see that they do n’t eat you up, without proper 
preliminaries. By thunder, Welles is as ugly as ever. I 
don’t believe that pounding I gave him improved his looks,” 

Welles turned pale, at Ned’s first appearance, and soon 
became actually ill at ease ; while those with him lost all the 
quiet complacency which they seemed to enjoy a few moments 
before. 

“ Oh, you darned cowardly villain 1” Ned went on, address- 
ing his remarks to Job. “ You and your contemptible gang 
thought you had a couple of Weston boys just where you could 
Balt and pepper ’em to your satisfaction. Now, curse you, 
come on. Not one, but all of you — all at once. I can whip 
the whole crowd in two minutes, and I am going to do it.” 
And Ned, with the back of his hand, dealt Job Welles a 
stinging blow upon the mouth. 

Mad with rage, yet not daring to risk a fair personal 
encounter with his old enemy. Job drew a pistol, and was on 
the point of leveling it upon Ned, when the latter quickly 
gave him another blow, near the temple, with his closed fist, 
felling him senseless to the ground. Then, without a moment’s 
hesitation, he rushed among those whom he perceived were 
Job’s backers, knocking them right and left. All who were 
not knocked down scampered ofif in terror ; while those who 
had fallen beneath Ned’s powerful fist, staggered to their feet 
as soon as possible, and slunk away. 


262 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


** Hurrah for Stanton I Three cheers for Weston I** shouted 
the bystanders. 

Shouts, jeers, and bursts of laughter followed the defeated 
and retreating rowdies. 

The insensible form of the bully-in-chief was carried from 
the scede by philanthropic conservatives; and, finally, after 
having a barrel or t vo of water poured on him promiscuously, 
he recovered his consciousness. So soon as his condition 
allowed, he mounted his horse and rode home. 

The Weston boys repaired to the village tavern, where they 
were fairly lionized by the populace. In that sparsely set- 
tled region, everybody knew everybody within the scope of 
many miles; and, while Ned Stanton was famous in New 
Market for his verbosity and general vivacity; and John 
DufFey, for his mischievous pranks; Job Welles was equally 
notorious, as a rough, overbearing, quarrelsome and unscru- 
pulous character. As bur young friends from Weston had 
executed their chief errands, prior to the race, there was now 
nothing to do but make merry for a while with their numer- 
ous friends at the tavern, and return home at their leisure. 

About sunset, feeling all the happier for a drink or two, 
they mounted their horses, and rode homeward. The evening 
was clear, and not long after the sun had gone down, the full 
moon peeped timidly from behind the distant mountains, and 
the settlement was bathed in her silvery light. 

** It was a lucky thing you came to New Market to-day, 
Ned,” remarked John Duffey; ‘‘you came just in time.” 

“ If I had known you were going, I would have gone with 
you in the fiist place. About eleven o’clock to-day Will and 
I happened to meet at Tony’s, and we were told there that 
you had gone. We knew that you would meet with Welles 
and get into trouble, so we quickly went home for our horses, 
which we did not happen to have with us, and, returning to 
Weston, crossed the river, and came here at a swift pace. 
We left our horses at the tavern, learned there that Welles, 
and about a dozen rowdies from Way nesburg, were there, and 


AN EVENTFUL DAY. 


^ 6 ^ 


we hurried out to the race-course. We saw a crowd gathered 
together, and, not doubting there was a row on hand, we went 
up, and found you and Job about ready to go at it. But, 
did n’t they scatter, though ? Oh ! I wish they had all stood 
their ground ; it would have been fun to lick ’em all?” 

“ They could n’t well stand their ground, when you knocked 
them down so fast,” observed Duffey. 

“They ’ll not come back to New Market again for a year,” 
remarked George Roland. 

Merrily chatting, they rode on over the smooth road at a 
smart pace, till within four or five miles of Weston, when the 
conversation turned on the speed of their horses. 

“Why,” said Ned, who was mounted on a large, powerful, 
though not swift, animal, “ I could leave you all a mile behind, 
in ten minutes.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha !” laughed John Duffey ; “ I could outrun that 
big horse of yours on foot.” 

“ Better try it mounted first. Even that fast pony you 
have under you couldn’t do that.” 

“ I have a piece of horse-flesh here,” put in George Roland, 
“ that will leave you all behind.” 

“ All but this one of mine,” suggested Will. 

“ No, I ’ll not except any.” 

“Well,” said Ned, “the night is beautiful, and the road 
smooth — what say you to a race?” 

“ I ’m in,” replied George. “ What distance?” 

“ From here to that woods a mile ahead.” 

“ Good. What say you, John?” 

“Agreed.” 

“ The hindmost man to treat the company, wheii we get to 
Weston,” Ned suggested. 

“ By all means,” acquiesced Will. 

“Very well: a fair start. All ready?” 

“ Yes.” 

“Then, one, two, three, away !” 

Oflf the four steeds darted, the clatter of their hoofs mak« 


264 


THE WHITE nC)6Ki. 


ing the earth tremble. DufFey and Will soon swept ahead of 
the others; and when they arrived at the wood Ned and 
George were several hundred yards behind. 

“ We are about even. Where are George and Ned said 
John. 

“ Away back under the hill yet. I don’t believe they tried 
to keep up. Let us ride slowly through the wood, and they 
will soon overtake us.” And they rode forward among the 
timber. 

Suddenly the bushes at the roadside, a few paces ahead of 
them, were heard to rustle, and two dark forms sprang out 
upon the road. 

“Bobbers!” exclaimed John, clubbiifg his riding-whip; 
while Will quickly drew a pistol, and cocked it. 

“ Stand aside, whoever you are 1” Will called out. 

“ Or we’ll make you,” John added. 

The moment John spoke, one of the ruffians leveled a pistol, 
evidently at him, and fired, the ball passing a few feet over 
his head. Will fired in return, and both dashed forward. 
He that had fired the pistol — no other than Bill of the cave — 
seized Duffey’s bridle-rein, while the other resolutely grasped 
that of Will. Knives could be seen gleaming in their hands, 
as streaks of modhlight shone upon them, through crevices in 
the foliage, and the young men knew that the moment was a 
perilous one. With a blow of his riding-whip, John almost 
crushed the hand of Bill, causing him. most unceremoniously 
to relax his grasp of the bridle-rein ; but, at the same instant, 
he received a blow from behind, that almost sent him from 
his horse. A like assault was made on Will, but with trivia*, 
result; and before another blow could, be struck, Ned and 
George dashed up, and felled the two new assailants to the 
earth — Ned with his fist, and George with a loaded riding- 
whip. One of the two scrambled up, and, with the two in 
front, ran away into the woods ; but the other — the one whom 
Ned had struck down — lay perfectly motionless upon the 
road. 


AN NVENTFT^L DAY. 


26 & 


Oil fie villains I” exclaimed John. 

**What is it all about?” asked Ned. “Who are they^ 
Suiely, not the men we met to-day.” 

“ No, I think they are highwaymen,” returned John. 
“ There were four or five of them. Two caught our horses, 
while others struck at us from behind with clubs. But for 
your timely aid they would have finished us. Ah, Ned, that 
is the second good turn you have done for me to-day I I can 
never forget you for it !” 

“ I think I have finished one of them,” Ned remarked, dis- 
mounting. 

The whole party dismounted, and soon ascertained that 
Ned’s victim was unconscious. A pistol and several knives 
were found lying in the road. 

“It is too bad,” remarked Ned, “that we did not get the 
others. Let us go in search of them.” 

“That would be useless,” said George; “they are far away 
by this time. Besides, we could not leave our horses.” 

“ Very true,” concurred Will. “ But what will we do with 
this fellow?” 

“ I think I will test the virtue of one of their own dirks 
on his carcass, so that he, at least, will never participate in a 
repetition of the attempt they have made to-night,” said 
Ned. 

“ No, let us carry him to Weston.” 

“ And allow him to escape as the other did last fall,” re- 
torted Ned. 

“ But we wont let him escape,” observed John. “ When 
we get him there, we will restore him to his senses, and he 
may reveal something. After that, we will hang him up 
without much ado.” 

“ Very well ; hand him up to me, and I will carry him,” 
said Ned, remounting. 

While John held the horses, George and Will lifted the 
insensible form of the robber to the back of Ned’s horse. 


266 


THE WHITE ROCfe§. 


Ned grasped him firmly, the others mounted, and all rode 
from the wood. 

The others may intercept us, and attempt a rescue,*' re- 
marked Will. 

“ I hope they may,** Ned replied. “We will then have an 
opportunity of taking them all. But there is no likelihood 
that they will trouble us again to-night. Oh, I would give — 
Ah, you sneaking, murdering villain! You’ll groan worse 
than that before morning!** he broke off, as the wounded 
robber emitted a groan. 

When they reached Weston, which they did between ten 
and eleven, the captive had recovered his consciousness, and 
was laboring under the liveliest apprehension of the fate that 
awaited him. 

Philip Kirke, after seeing George Roland and John Duffey 
depart for New Market that morning, visited the cave, and 
reported to Bill and the others that the intended victims had 
gone on their journey, and that no others had accompanied 
them. Returning to the road, he visited Mr. Patton, of 
whom he had purchased grain once or twice, and there re- 
mained till after dinner, departing for Weston at two. He 
was far from feeling perfectly at ease during the day, 
although he could not imagine how the impending murders 
could possibly endanger him. When he arrived at the village, 
having walked very leisurely after leaving the farmer*s house, 
the evening was approaching, and he found himself actually 
in a state of trepidation. A drink or two of brandy, how- 
ever, restored his nerves to their wonted quiet, and he viewed 
more calmly the projected crimes. It was not until a late 
hour of the evening that Tony casually informed him that 
Ned Stanton and Will Hempstead had gone to New Market 
a couple of hours later than the . others. This intelligence 
somewhat startled Philip, coming, as it did, too late to serve 
him. Had he learned of the fact immediately on his return 
to the village, he might have been able to reach the cave er# 


Alf EVENTFUL i)4V, 

Bill and Lis party had started for their place of ambush » 
but it was too late now. 

The villagers were soon aroused and assembled in front of 
the tavern, upon the arrival of the adventurers and theii 
prisoner ; and a scene followed very similar to that enacted 
in the village more than a year before, when Bill was a chief 
character. Bill was not the unfortunate party this time ; it 
was one of the Busters. The indignant citizens were deter- 
mined he should not escape them as Bill had done, and after 
endeavoring, in vain, to wring from him any disclosures re- 
garding his associates, due preparations were made for hang- 
ing him to the sign-post. 

When the wretched criminal saw the rope, and fully re- 
alized that speedy death stared him in the face, he struggled 
desperately to disengage himself. Finding his struggles 
futile, he fell upon his knees, and cried out in a supplicating 
tone : 

Oh, do n’t hang me ! Do n’t kill me to-night ! Let me 
live till to-morrow I Let me live an hour I” 

“ String him up,” cried several. 

“Or shoot him and be done with it,” added another, 

“Oh, don’t!” screamed the terrified wretch. “Have 
mercy! Let me live a few minutes, — a minute, — and I’ll 
tell you how, — I 11 tell you all about — ” 

“Down with the rascal!” cried Philip Kirke, at this 
moment, forcing his way into the immediate presence of the 
captive. “ Oh, the villain ! — The very one that robbed me 
near Pittsburg two or three years ago ! I ’d know him a 
thousand years after! Oh, you knave! I told you we 
would meet again!” And, ere anyone could divine his pur- 
pose, Philip drew a pistol from his pocket, raised it and fired, 
and the luckless robber fell to the earth — a bullet buried in 
his heart, his tongue silenced, and his lips sealed forever. 

A second after, Philip observed that a pair of eyes were 
regarding him strangely from among the crowd, and he felt 
an involuntary shudder pass over him. 


268 


THE WHITte ROCitS. 

Great excitement prevailed, and tlie assembled citizens 
gathered around the lifeless robber. A few drops of blood 
were oozing sluggishly from the wound in the breast, and the 
limbs quivered slightly. The face wore the death hue, and 
the pulse had ceased to beat, plainly showing that life was 
extinct. 

“ Who shot him?’* asked several. 

“ Phil Kirke,’* was the reply. 

** Good for him ! That ’s right ! He has put one rascal out 
of the way for us.’* 

All expressed their approbation of the deed Philip had 
done, which did not much alleviate a certain pang he suffered 
in the consciousness of having slain a comrade. 

The dead body was searched, and a few trifling articles 
found in the pockets, among which was a small pocket knife, 
with an ivory handle, on which was cut the name, P. Kirke. 

“ Why, Phil,” exclaimed one, “ here is a knife with your 
name on I He must have taken it from you when he robbed 
you.” 

“ Yes,** returned Philip, ** he knocked me almost senseless 
with a club, and rifled my pockets of everything. I remem- 
ber that knife- well.” 

The finder restored the knife to Philip, who, as he* received 
it, saw that same pair of eyes fixed searchingly upon him. 

The dead body was disposed of with very little ceremony, 
being next day buried by the citizens in a wood a little way 
from the village. No coroner’s jury sat upon it, nor did the 
authorities ever investigate the affair. Philip was not called 
to answer in the slightest degree for what all regarded as a 
perfectly justifiable and even meritorious act, none imagining 
that he had killed one of his friends and confederates. 

“ There is honor among thieves,” it is said ; but that honor, 
if it may be so styled, consists merely in mutual interest. 
Let self-interest become greater, and they are generally ready 
to cut each other’s throats — as the case in q^iestion fairly 
illustrates. 


26 d 


AN OATH. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

AN OATH. 

Having seen his victim buried, Philip Kirke cautiously 
departed for a visit to the cave. He found his remaining 
four accomplices in a state of great anxiety, especially the re- 
maining Buster. Hardened as Philip was in crime, he almost 
shrunk from the task of breaking to the bereaved the news 
of his brother’s death ; for he knew that the Busters, crimi- 
nals though they were, had ever entertained for each other 
even more than the ordinary attachment. It was not, by any 
means, his intention to tell the whole truth regarding the 
death of the robber ; for should the surviving brother know 
that it was he who had done the deed, even his rank of com- 
mander-in-chief of the den would scarcely save him from 
summary vengeance. 

Bill, with Sam and Joe, had returned to the scene of the 
melee early that morning, in the hope of obtaining some clue 
to the fate of their missing companion. They had searched 
the whole neighborhood, without finding any traces of him; 
and the result of their investigations was to convince them 
that he had been disabled, and carried to Weston. It waa 
therefore with the utmost solicitude that they hailed the ap- 
proach of Philip. 

“ What ’s the news ? How about Buster ?” Bill asked. 

I ’ll tell you by and by,” Philip replied. 

“ Oh, wdiat ’s become o’ him?” Buster entreated. 

Be quiet now, Buster,” said Philip, “ and do n’t carry on 
like a fool. I have bad news to tell you.” 

“ What is it?” Bill asked. 


^70 


tHE WHITE tOOkt 


** I half dread to tell you.” 

“ But I want to know the worst/* insisted Buster. ‘ What '3 
the use 0’ keepin* a feller not knowin’ what to think?** 

“ Well, you have reason to fear — ** 

**What? Is he still alive? Do they hold him prisoner? 
I ’ll go an’ take him away I I ’ll swear — ’* 

“Pooh! don’t get so excited. Be a man. If you don’t 
calm yourself I wont tell you at all,” said Philip. 

“But I will be quiet! Oh, go on an’ tell me!” exclaimed 
Buster, trembling with agitation. 

“ But see how excited you are now.** 

“ Well, go on,” said Buster, “ go on, and tell me the worst. 
I ’m ready for it.’* 

“ Then you may prepare to hear the worst.’* 

“ Oh, I knowed it ! I knowed it 1 My brother’s dead I 
They ’ve killed him !’* 

“ Your brother is dead,” returned Philip. 

“ Dead, dead, dead ! Oh ! oh !” ejaculated Buster, half 
cursing, half crying, “ killed ! I knowed it. Who was it 
done it? Tell me that !” 

“ Control yourself, and I ’ll tell you in time.** 

“ There ’s a chance for revenge yit,’* suggested Bill. 

“I ’spose the Weston fellers murdered him,” ventured Joe, 
as they come purty near fixin’ you. Bill.*’ 

“ How was he killed?” Buster asked, in a tone of resigna- 
tion. 

“I ’spose,*’ said Bill, “them fellers as pitched into ua 
done it.” 

“ Not right there then, fur we was there afterwards,” said 

Joe. 

“No, they carried him to Weston,** rejoined Philip. 

“ And murdered him there?” asked Buster. 

“ Yes, in cold blood,” returned Philip. 

“How?” asked Buster, manifesting a desire to learn all 
the particulars. 

“Hung him, I ’spose,*’ ventured Bill, 


AN OATH. 


271 


** Oh, I hope not,” said the brother. 

** Why,” said Bill, “ that ’s as decent a way — 

“ Hush, Bill,” interrupted Philip. “ I ’ll tell you all about 
it if you give me time. He was shot.” 

“ An’ killed dead ?” queried Buster. 

** Yes, dead.” 

Did n’t speak any more ?” 

“ Not f word.” 

“Who done it? Oh, tell me that!” Buster ejaculated. 
“Tell me that! Give me his name! Tell me what he’s 
like, so I ’ll know him I an* oh, I ’ll pay him ! He sha n’t 
live to — ” 

“ Kill any more o* us,” interrupted Bill. 

“ No,” Buster went on, “ I ’ll kill him before — ’* 

“ Come now, Buster,” Philip interrupted, “ I thought you 
were to keep cool. I do n’t wish to excite you.” 

“ Excite me, an’ my brother killed ! Who would n’t be 
excited ? I want to know who done it ! Tell me, or I ’ll go 
to Weston myself an’ find out.” 

“ I will tell you ; only promise me you will take my advice 
as to how you proceed,” said Philip. 

“ I will — if you only do n’t ask me to spare his life ! Who 
is it ? Tell me !” 

“ You may have your revenge to the fullest extent,” re- 
sponded Philip ; “ but for the sake of your own safety, as 
well as for certain purposes of my own, I ask you not to 
hasten. Will you promise that?” 

“ Yes. Tell me where I kin find him — ’* 

“ And when?" 

“ Yes, when. I ’ll take your advice.’* 

“ And you promise to await the proper time, and not allow 
your feelings to lead you to rashness?” 

“ Yes, I ’ll promise all o’ that.” 

“ Then listen to me, and I will tell you all. Your brother 
was knocked down senseless in the road, and captured by a 
party of Weston men, wko went to New Market yesterday, 


272 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


after I tad left tte village to visit you, and I did not, there- 
fore, know that they had gone. They chanced to be behinu 
the two men you attacked, and they rode up at the very 
worst moment, as you are aware.’* 

“ An’ knocked him breathless ?” 

“ Yes, and carried him to the village.’* 

“ Did he come to ?” 

“ Yes, by the time they arrived at Weston he had re- 
covered his consciousness. A crowd soon gathered around 
him, and endeavored, by threats, to force him to tell where 
the rest of his friends stayed, and — ** 

He would n’t 1” 

“ No; he was firm and brave to the last.” 

** Jist like him.” 

So, finding that he would disclose nothing,” Philip con- 
tinued, “they resolved to hang him at once.” 

“ Oh, if I ’d ’a* on]y been there!” 

“ My first impulse,” Philip went on, “ was to rush upon 
the crowd and attempt to rescue him ; bub-:-” 

“ Oh, I ’d ’a’ done it 1” interrupted Buster. 

“ An’ both been slaughtered,” suggested Bill. 

“ Yes,” said Philip ; “ a second thought convinced me that 
such an attempt would have been madness. So, I spoke to 
the crowd, and urged them not to take such a rash step. I 
told them to wait till morning, and then hand him over to 
the civil authorities. Had they done so, we might have 
rescued him. They listened to me, and the majority were in 
favor of taking my advice, when up stepped a fellow, deter- 
mined not to give him a chance for his life, and shot him 
dead.” 

“ Oh, the infernal — I ’ll kill him 1 I ’ll — But who waa 
it? How will I know him?” said Buster. 

“ I will tell you. But remember your promise.” 

“I will.” 

“Well, it was that fellow we all have reason to hate fo! 
his efforts to hunt us to the earth — Roland," 


AN OATH. 


273 


« Oh, himP 

** The same.” 

** Then tell me when I may be revenged !*’ 

“Well, as I told you before, he is at the head of a com- 
pany organized to hunt us to death.” 

“Yes.” 

“ But there is nothing to fear from him or his party so long 
as you all keep close, as they believe that our place is in 
Greene county. They have scoured this county till they are 
satisfied our rendezvous is beyond the river ; and, unless they 
see some chance trace of you, they will probably never search 
on this side again.” 

“ But how — ” began Buster; “ when — ” 

“ Listen. Now, what you want is revenge. You want to 
make your brother’s murderer suffer as much as possible.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, as I have before told you all, I am going to marry 
the girl he lovos. Now should he live to see that take 
place — to see me, whom he so hates, in the arms of one he 
loves, would he not suffer ?” 

“ So he would.” 

“ Then do n’t you think you had better let him live to 
see it?” 

“ I think so ; and after that — ” 

“After that, when he is just beginning to forget it, and to 
enjoy life again— cut him off.” 

“ That I will I But how long — ” 

“Before a year, I assure you.” 

“And how shall I know him when I find him?” 

“Oh, I can arrange that when the time comes.” 

“ So you kin. An’ it ’s that feller, Boland ?” 

“ Yes, the same.” 

“Curse him!” vociferated Buster, almost frantically. “I 
wear by all that ’s of heaven or hell that I will be revenged. 
May my soul be eternally shut up in scorchin’ fire an’ brim- 
stone if I do n’t kill my brother’s murderer I” 

18 


TtiE WHITE EOCKS. 


2i4 

Philip shudd-Bred as he heard this; for he felt that if thia 
oath be fulfilled, the consequences to himself would be rather 
alarming. But pshaw 1 What was there to fear ? By what 
means could Buster ever discover that it was he, and not 
George Boland, who had shot his brother? No one in Weston 
had intercourse with the cave. 

There was a pause, during which the bereaved robber threw 
himself down upon the hard dry floor of the cave in a parox- 
ysm of grief. 

Come,” urged Philip, “ do n’t give way thus. Be a man, 
and nerve yourself to execute your revenge.” 

** Oh, I ’ll be ready for that,” returned Buster, rising. ** But 
tell me, what was done with the body ?” 

** At my instigation,” Philip replied, “ the body was de- 
cently buried in a little grove along the river.” 

“Where it may be found?” 

“Yes, easily. But I now wish to impress on you all the 
Importance of remaining for some time in the strictest seclu- 
sion. Do not leave the cave this fall. Should one of you be 
seen in the settlement, it would be pretty sure to lead to 
discovery ; and Roland and his party would be down on 
you some fine morning, ready to shoot you as they would 
panthers. So long as you do not stir, they will never come 
here to look for you. Greene county will be thoroughly 
scoured, and the blood-thirsty fools will return to the village 
as they went forth. Bill, I know I can depend on you, and 
on all of you, in fact, to remember my instructions.” 

“Never fear,” Bill returned; “ we ’ll stay close enough till 
all danger has blowed over.” 

“ That ’s right. I would suggest that you even haul the 
boat ashore and conceal it.” 

“ We ’ll do it.” 

“Have you plenty of provisions?” 

“ Yes ; we could do with what we have all winter.” 

“ Then there is no reason why you should go far fj^om the 
^ve. You cannot be too cautious. Even when you go out 


AN OATH. 


275 


for wood or water, let it be in the night. There is something 
else I must mention. As it would be incurring new risk for 
me to visit you often for a while now, do not think it strange 
if you do not see me for a month or more. I am going to 
Pittsburg next week; but, as I think it best not to revisit 
you soon, I will not get the instruments we spoke about yes- 
terday, as I would not like to keep them about me.” 

“ Very well ; we ’ll not need ’em this winter.” 

“ I wall be in Pittsburg often, though, and will get them 
yet in time for next summer’s operations. So, remember, 
do nothing till next spring, either here or in Greene county. 
Let the people suppose that you have gone from the neigh- 
borhood; then, next spring, when they least expect it, you 
can light down on them — ” 

“ Like a night-hawk on a June-bug,” Bill suggested. 

Yes, and you might commence your operations by gcdtting 
rid of our particular enemies.” 

** But I*m to finish that Eoland,” said Buster. 

** Yes, you may have that task; you deserve it.” 

** An’ I,” said Bill, “ must tend to my man Duflfey. I owe 
him more ’n ever now; he nearly broke my hand last night. 
I knowed his voice ; an’ if that cursed pistol o’ mine had 
done its duty, he ’d a never bothered anybody agin.” 

“ Yes, all can be settled in the spring ; but that everything 
may be the more surely done, remain quiet during the fall 
and winter. Should you run short of provisions, go far be- 
yond this settlement after a supply.” 

We wont be apt to ventur about Weston.” 

Well, good-by. Remember my instructions, and keep 
everything straight till you see me again.” And Philip t<»^k 
leave of his brother robbers, and returned to the village. 


276 


THE WHITE KOCKS. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

A LAPSE. 

Dueing the pleasant days of Indian summer, Philip Kirhe 
visited the homestead of Ira Tate, and found, to his satisfac- 
tion, that his reputation had not at all suffered there in con- 
sequence of his shooting the robber, and that Mary’s affection 
for him was rather enhanced than otherwise ; and when he 
related, from his fertile imagination, a most thrilling story 
of his having been, at one time, waylaid, robbed and cruelly 
maltreated by the outlaw whom he had killed in Weston, Ira 
warmly commended him for his summary act of retribution, 
stating that — By gorry I the rascal ought to ’a* been killed 
a inch at a time.’* 

The same afternoon Philip, Mary and Tilly visited the 
White Rocks, where they encountered Molly Pry, the for- 
tune-teller, who, to their wonder, ran. off like a frightened 
deer on their approach. After a pleasant chat of an hour, 
and a survey, of the surrounding country, they leisurely de- 
scended the mountain, and he returned to the village, fully 
“atisfied with himself and the world — with one exception. 

Several times during the autumn Philip visited Pittsburg, 
but nothing worthy of note occurred. Still esteemed and 
unsuspected, did this treacherous robber dwell in the midst 
of the community which he continually betrayed into the 
bands of his vile associates. 

There was one annoying enemy, of whom he had now al- 
most rid himself. That enemy — the tormentor for a time 
of all bad men — was conscience. But faintly now did con- 
science ever remonstrate with him ; and when she did, her 


jl lapse. 


277 


desponding voice was quickly hushed. Gradually he had 
come to this. But by degrees had he arrived at a stage of 
moral darkness when he could congratulate himself that con- 
science was about dead. And yet he was regarded by those 
of the village and surrounding neighborhood as a moral 
young man, and certainly as an honorable gentleman — was 
even betrothed to the most beautiful girl of the settlement. 
A few years previously he had been in reality what he ap- 
peared to be now — a moral young man, and as far from crime 
as any ordinary person. But killing a neighbor in a duel — 
himself the challenger and the provoker of the quarrel — he 
fled from justice ; and considering himself thenceforth the 
enemy of justice, he proceeded to outrage all her laws. 
Plunging into forgery and robbery, he soon became a mur- 
derer; and once a murderer, and considering himself irre. 
trievably lost, he proceeded to reconcile himself to circum- 
stances ; and to make the best of a bad bargain, he decided 
to silence conscience, and to enjoy the present life, if possible, 
at whatever cost to others. He had killed his neighbor in 
Ohio ; he had killed honest old Henry White, the father of 
the unfortunate maiden whom he had led to set her heart 
and life upon him ; and he had killed one of his confederates 
to secure his own safety. He was, indeed, true to none and 
to nothing but the devil. 

Hot long after the capture and death of the hapless Buster, 
George Eoland and his fraternity made an extensive tour 
through Greene county, in search of the rendezvous of the rob- 
bers, penetrating to every secluded nook and valley, and 
scouring every quiet grove and forest for miles around. More 
than a week was occupied in the search ; but, of course, to no 
purpose. The party returned to the village, without having 
discovered a single trace of the outlaws. 

Again the people were led to believe that the robbers had 
evacuated the neighborhood : and, as the fall and winter wore 
ft way with no intimation of their presence, that belief amounted 


278 


THF; WHITE ROCKS. 


to conviction. They little divined the startling tragedy which 
the presence of the robbers was destined yet to occasion ! 

The winter was an unprecedentedly mild one. During the 
three winter months the snow did not fall to the depth in toto 
of one inch, nor ice freeze to the thickness of ordinary win- 
dow-glass. The days were usually clear and pleasant, and 
the nights barely frosty. There was not much rain to render 
the earth soft, nor frost to make it hard; and the farmers 
found it easy to do their ploughing for the summer crops. 
The enjoyments of the winter consisted of a social party, or 
two, sleighing-parties being, of course, out of the question. 

The sage weather-prophets, who, from day to day, foretold 
a speedy snowstorm, were set entirely at naught by the con- 
tinued clemency of the winter. When December had passed 
away, with only a light frost or two, all who were in the habit 
of taking particular note of the weather (which included all 
the old farmers in the country) confidently predicted that the 
months of January and February would necessarily be very 
severe ; but when the month of January had also passed mildly 
by, it was almost universally agreed that February would 
certainly bring frosts, snows, chilling winds, and other appur- 
tenances of winter, capable of astonishing even a Greenlander. 

But February and March, too, were shoved quietly from 
the table of time, with only such a faint skim of snow, and 
Buch a gentle frost or Wo, that the weather-prophets were fain 
to conclude that old winter was either dead or very sound 
asleep. He was asleep, and these very same barometic prog- 
nosticators were destined to witness his inopportune waking 
up. But, anon. 

One important event claims a place in this chapter. 

On a clear, bright morning in January, while a light frost, 
scarcely less gentle than the summer dew, was disappearing 
before the early sun, and falling in sparkling drops from the 
bare twigs of the trees, John Duffey, attired in his “ best,” 
and mounted upon his spirited pony, crossed the river at Wes- 
ton, and took his way toward New Market; no doubt having 


A LAT8% 


279 


business, of some sort, to transact in that vicinity. It was 
about ten o’clock when be arrived at Mr. Ross’s gate, and he 
concluded to stop “ for a minute or two.” His horse was put 
away, and himself conducted by Mr. Ross into the little par- 
lor, where Mrs. Ross soon greeted him. He did not see 
Maggie, and he wondered where she was. In the hope of 
gaining some light on this absorbing question, he remarked to 
Mr. and Mrs. Ross, jointly, that he hoped they were “ all 
quite well.” 

“Quite well,” was the reply. “Maggie” — John percep- 
tibly started — “ has gone out for a little walk — the weather 
being so pleasant — ” 

“ It is — usry,” John put in, in order to appear not to take 
undue interest in Maggie. 

“ She will soon return,” said Mrs. Ross. 

J ohn was glad to hear that, but did n’t confide the senti- 
ment to the parents of the young lady. 

After some general conversation, Mr. Ross excused himself; 
stating that he was constrained to visit his store, having some 
important business to transact, and begging his young visitor 
to make himself perfectly comfortable till he should return. 
John promised to do so — and he felt confident of his ability 
to fulfill his promise, if Maggie should come soon — and 
Mr. Ross departed. Mrs. Ross, after a little further conver- 
sation, was compelled to leave Duffey alone for a while, in 
order to make preliminary arrangements for dinner. 

“Maggie will soon return,” said she, on withdrawing; 
“meantime, there are books,” pointing to a book-case of 
literature ; “ amuse yourself by looking over them ; and pray 
excuse my seeming inattention.” 

“ Oh, do n’t mention it 1” said John. 

When he found himself alone, he proceeded to make an inva- 
sion among the books, and seeing a volume of Shakspeare, and 
knowing that that work contained many beautiful sentiments 
which might be in sympathy with his frame of mind, (his 


m 


WHITE ROCKS. 


thoughts dwelling chiefly on Miss Maggie,) he eagerly seized 
it, and sat down to con it over. 

Poets generally,” he mused, as he turned over the leaves 
in a desultory manner, are very profuse in their encomiums 
on the fair sex, and I believe Shakspeare is no exception. 
Some insipid creatures pronounce a poet next thing to a mad- 
man : but I want no better evidence of their sound sense than 
their invincible disposition to eulogize the name of woman ! 
But what’s this ? Hamlet. What does he say ? 

“‘Frailty, thy name is woman T 

“Pshaw! he’s a fool 1” John impatiently exclaimed, closing 
the volume. “ But let me see,” he presently resumed, open- 
ing the book again. “ That was Hamlet, and he is said to 
have been mad. Ha I I should think he was. I would want 
no better evidence of insanity on the part of any man. But 
here’s Borneo. What does he say ? 

“ * But soft? what light through yonder window breaks ? 

It is the east, and Juliet — ’ 

“ Maggie, it should have been — 

“ ‘ — Is the sun. 

Arise, fair sun, and — ’ ” 

At that moment the door swung gently open, and Miss 
Boss entered. How beautiful she looked this morning 1 John 
felt sure that he had never before seen her looking quite so 
charming. The pleasant air had imparted the rosiest bloom 
to her cheeks. Never before had her lips looked so red, nor 
her eyes so blue! and her hair — darker, apparently, than 
usual — hung about her neck and shoulders in natural, wavy 
tresses, that looked decidedly killing. 

“Good morning,” said John, arising. 

“Why, good — good morning!” Maggie returned, half-con- 
fusedly; having evidently entered without being aware of 
his presence. 

“ A fine morning,” remarked Duffey, advancing, and taking 
her pretty hand. 


JL LAPSE. 


281 


** Lovely!’* slie returned. “Pray be seated, John.’* 

Called him John I She may have done so before ; but, if 
sbe bad, John did not remember it. John 1 Not Mr. Duffey I 

“ It is — is a beautiful morning,’* be observed, as be resumed 
bis seat, forgetting that be bad already made a synonimous 
remark. He evidently bad sometbing on bis mind, for be 
spoke in an absent way. 

“ Delightful I” 

Ob, wbat an enthusiastic rejoinder T" 

“ The weather has been beautiful during all the autumn and 
winter,” remarked John. 

“ Unusually so.** 

There was a brief pause, during which both gazed out of 
the window, being seated near thereto, and consequently not 
ve7y far from each other. 

“ Maggie !** 

Miss Eoss started. Her young friend bad never before so 
pathetically pronounced her name. 

John hesitated. . “ I was — I think — ** be went on, after % 
moment ; “ I think I never saw such a — such a mild winter.** 

“Nor I.” 

Another pause ensued, during which Maggie frequently 
glanced out, as though silently regarding the beautiful 
weather ; and Duffey gazed with unusual interest upon a very 
ordinary picture which hung upon the opposite wall, in which 
he had apparently discovered some new beauties. 

“ Maggie,” observed John, again breaking the silence, “ I 
was just thinking that — in fact — ” 

“ What ?” And Maggie looked at John — (At ? Through I) 
— with those eyes, 

“Why,” continued John, “it has been — it has been, I 
believe, only — about — not quite a year since I became ac* 
quainted with you.” 

“ Not quite,” returned Maggie. (What a singular remark, 
she thought.) 


282 


TEE t^HlTE 


** And yet,” John went on, ** I feel as though I had known 
you intimately for a long time — ten years, for instance.” 

** Y-yes.” 

Then followed a half-hour of alternate pauses, and frag- 
ments of conversation, in the course of which the weather 
was remarked on by Duffey, in a disconnected way, far oftener 
than the occasion seemed to demand. Not without repetition, 
either ; for, no fewer than eight different times, he informed 
Maggie that it was indeed a very “fine day:” and we infer 
from this that his whole attention was scarcely given to this 
particular topic, or he would not have forgotten, from one 
minute to another, what remarks he had made. 

At length, without exactly knowing what he meant, he 
remarked : 

“ How the time does pass away I” 

Maggie said, “ Yes.” 

Another pause followed, during which a look of determi- 
nation gradually settled upon the face of Duffey, making it 
manifest that he had made up his mind to do something 
dreadful, and he said : 

“ Maggie, I *m one of the worst kind of fellows — a rough — 
a — a—” 

“ Oh, no 1” interrupted his companion. “ Why do you say 
that?” 

“ Oh, yes I am 1” John persisted ; “lam not fit to be a com- 
panion to you. You are too good I and — ” 

“ Nonsense I” 

“And too beautiful” — growing eloquent — “for a rough 
mischievous, and even unfeeling fellow like me ! And oh ! — ” 

“ You are foolish,” interrupted Maggie, playfully. “Why 
are you beginning to rate yourself, and applaud me?” 

“ Because,” returned John, growing desperate as he ap- 
proached the point, “ I have been absurd enough this morning 
to dare to entertain an intention of saying something to you, 
which, if not received with — with — ” and John broke down. 

“ I am at a loss to comprehend you,” said Maggie, in a ton# 


V , 


A IiAPSB. 28S 

ihat sounded so much like genuine earnestness, that John 
really believed she was. 

He saw that the time had come when he was called upon 
to establish his reputation either as “a man or a mouse 
and, resolved to ignore the character of the latter, he seized 
the hand of Miss Maggie, pressed it fervently between his 
own two hands, gazed unflinchingly (though not without a 
strenuous eflbrt) into her pretty eyes — yes, her eyes I — and 
said : 

“ Maggie, I must tell you a little secret which I have held 
ever since I first saw you, and which I can reveal to no other 
than you. Shall I tell it you?” 

“ Why, yes ; if you like to confide in me.” 

Oh, thought John, can it be possible that she does not 
suspect what it is I 

She looked as though she di 1 n’t, though ; and he proceeded 
to enlighten her, after this wise : 

“ Maggie, dear Maggie ! — darling Maggie ! ” — with in- 
creased emphasis — “ I love you ! I love you dearly 1 I 
love you beyond expression ! I have loved you ever since I 
first saw you !— ever since that happy evening I called here 
on my way home! Yes, and from that time my love has 
never changed save to grow stronger! and thus will it be 
ever, though we should live a thousand years I” 

Maggie averted her face from the earnest gaze of her lover, 
but made no very prodigious efibrt to withdraw the hand 
which he still pressed with passionate fervor, and upon which 
he even imprinted a kiss. 

** Dear Maggie,” John went on, ** do not — oh, do not tell 
me coldly that you do not care for me 1 I can scarcely hope 
that you do ; but I could no longer refrain from telling you 
what I have told you to-day I Do not tell me there is no 
hope, — even if there is none! — but let me dream on for 
awhile yet ! — for a dream of your love is a bright vision I 
would not have abruptly dispelled! Oh, that it might last 


281 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


forever I But tell me, oh, tell me that I need not entirely 
despair !** 

Maggie was confused, and she murmured something about 
its being “ so sudden,” which is always considered equivalent 
to at least advising the solicitous lover not to hang himself 
for a day or two. 

** I know it must have taken you by surprise,” said John. 

I never supposed you thought of anything of the kind, but — ” 

And, in fact, the young lovers — for we may now so term 
them — conversed freely on the interesting topic before them 
for half an hour. 

During that half-hour, Duffey becoming convinced that ha 
was not received entirely with disfavor, grew so bold as to 
state that without the idol of his heart — Maggie — the idea of 
his surviving anything like a year was absurd ; and she being 
naturally inclined to philanthropy, and very much averse to 
being the cause of any one’s death, however indirectly, did 
finally vouchsafe the assurance that he would not probably be 
required to live without the said idol — especially — “ if — if — 
papa, you know — ” 

E.'^.actly.” Papa did not seem a very formidable obstacle. 

As elsewhere, the winter passed aw^'ay smoothly, quietly 
and pleasantly, at Ira Tate’s. As spring approached, Mary 
secretly made some little arrangements for the wedding, in 
the shape of some extra white dress or bonnet. She was re- 
solved, as agreed between her and Philip, to keep the matter 
a profound secret, and thus astonish her uncle, aunt, cousin, 
and the people generally. She little imagined the shock that 
did await her friends ! 

Tilly’s dream of love remained unbroken ; but it must be 
confessed that she considered it a piece of unaccountable 
neglect in Ned that he had not yet proposed. She felt sure 
that the coming spring, at furthest, must bring matters to a 
crisis ; and she was right. 

Ira, during the whole of the gentle winter, was unusually 
cheerful and good-tempered; and it is stated of him, that 


A LAi^SB. 


285 


from tte month of October to the month of March he only 
killed four chickens, one cat, and three small pigs, by way of 
appeasing his wrath, as occasion from time fo time required. 
He did, one morning, smash a rake against the wall of the 
barn, because his head came in contact with the top of the 
door-frame, as he entered by the small door ; but then it was 
an old rake, and of but little use — three of the teeth being 
gone, and the handle a little split. 

Aunt Eliza still flourished at the farm-house, taking occa- 
sion as frequently as ever to point out the frailties of man. 
Ira often listened to her discourses with profound veneration; 
but always considered himself an exception to the general 
rule, because he was, in a manner, under the care and tuition 
of Aunt Eliza. Placing implicit reliance on everything she 
said, and believing the sentiments and opinions she promul- 
gated to be nothing short of gospel, he often imagined that 
his own moral condition might finally have become fearful to 
contemplate had she not entered his household and taken 
upon herself the duty of keeping things generally “ straight,** 
and him in particular. 

At the village, and especially at Tony’s, everything went 
on as usual during the light winter in question. Ned Stanton 
visited his favorite place of resort almost as frequently as of 
old, and it was often his privilege to give his friend Dick the 
benefit of a common-sized octavo-volume-ful of his “ mind.” 

Will Hempstead came occasionally to the village, and now 
and then spent an evening at Tony’s with Ned, John Dufiey, 
and others. But George Boland, who appeared of late to 
have “lost all his mirth,” and to have grown taciturn and 
sedate, seldom visited Tony’s, or remained long in the village 
when he came. All agreed that he was brooding on some 
subject, though none imagined what it was. When he met 
Philip Kirke, he neither spoke to him nor noticed him. 
Although not naturally sullen, he had certainly grown so 
during a year past ; and his friends at times could scarcely 
refrain from growing quite impatient with him. If asked 


286 


THE WHITE ROCKS, 


whether Be was unwell, he stated that he had never felt better 
in his life ; that he thought himself, in fact, even improving 
in health, if anything, and growing more and more robust 
'^every day. Some attributed his altered manner to the dis- 
appointment his affections had undergone in losing Mary. 
But no ! The pangs of despised love ” rankled bitterly 
enough in his bosom ; but heavier still sat upon his spirit the 
delay of Justice 1 


CHAPTER XXX. 

AN APRIL SHOWER. 

** Come in like a lion, go out like a lamb,” (or, vice versa,’) 
is a familiar saying usually applied to the month of March, 
in connection with the weather, and supposed to imply that 
if that month begin with storms of wind, rain, hail, snow, 
and all sorts of savage things calculated to remind one of the 
“king of beasts,” it will, as a necessary consequence, end 
with such halcyon days of sunshine, and such delightful 
weather generally, as to be very suggestive of the quiet, 
peaceful nature of the youthful sheep ; and if, on the other 
hand, the “ lamV' -weather characterize the beginning of the 
month, if the first days of the month are calm, clear and 
pleasant, then the latter days of the same may reasonably be 
expected to bring with them such pertuibances of the ele- 
ments as may be appropriately likened only to the ferocious 
traits of the lion. 

The March, succeeding the mild winter w^e have mentioned, 
did “ come in ’* like a very lamb, and even maintained the 
gentle character of the sheep until the thirty-first, when 
there was a sudden change in the temperature of the atmoa* 


AN APEIL SHOWEB. 


287 


phere — a cold wind sprang up, snow-clouds arose, hid the sun 
and covered the whole face of the heavens, and there followed 
such a violent and protracted snow-storm as only the most 
liberal and consistent would have justified even in the depth 
of winter. For several days the snow continued to fall in 
heavy flakes, blown hither and thither by a violent wind> 
till about the third or fourth day in April, when, having 
attained the average depth of two feet and some odd inches — 
to say nothing of a fabulous drift here and there, capable of 
burying an ordinary habitation — it ceased to fall. The air con- 
tinuing cold, and the snow betraying no indications of melt- 
ing away speedily, sleds and sleighs came into requisition, and 
the bells were heard upon the public roads, tinkling as merry 
as 'ever in mid- winter. 

As the pleasures of sleigh-riding had been necessarily 
ignored during the winter, and as, moreover, the idea of a 
sleighing-party in April presented novelties never before con- 
templated by the youth of the Weston settlement, they 
determined to improvise one, which they accordingly did. 
All entered into the arrangements, and on the very evening 
of the day on which the suggestion was made — the sky being 
clear and illumined by the full moon — a score of sleighs 
were flying along the mountain road, en niasse^ containing 
thirty-nine merry youths of both sexes. Philip Kirke was 
among them, accompanied by Mary, for whom he had hastily 
driven to the farm-house an hour before ; George Poland, by 
Miss Kitty Hempstead ; Will Hempstead, by Miss Dufiey ; 
Ned Stanton, by Tilly Tate; and John Dufiey — by himself, 
having foregone the pleasure of any young lady’s company 
on this occasion. 

Away they went, up hill and down ; now to the right, now 
to the left, until they had traversed all the principal roads for 
miles around. About midnight, having crossed and recrossed 
the mountain road half-a-dozen times, and having, in the 
abstract, enjoyed a pleasant ride of something like half-a- 
buudred miles, they found themselves at the cross-roads a 


288 


THE WHITE BOCKS. 


mile east of the village ; and there all drew up for consulta' 
tion. 

“Whither now?” asked one. 

“ Home, I should say/’ responded .another, no doubt be- 
ginning to tire of the sport, and probably to entertain visions 
of a warm bed and general repose for weary eyelids. 

“Oh, not yet; not for a little while yet,” said a third, 
whose enthusiasm had not yet cooled. 

“ Oh, not yet,” urged a fourth, in support of number three; 
“ not yet. We have had no such sport during the winter.” 

“ And wont have again till next winter,” suggested a fifth, 
ip support of both. 

“ If even then,” put in a sixth, with a view to present for 
consideration every possible contingency that might carry 
argumentative weight in favor of protracting the sport: 

“But we’ve- traveled at least forty miles to-night,” per- 
sisted the first speaker. 

“ Well, s’pose’n we make it fifty ; another hour ’ll do it 
slicHy” observed an illiterate young man, who, in attempt- 
ing to introduce a profound adverb, was certainly guilty of 
a grammatical error; a thing which classical men have 
argued cannot exist. 

“ The moon is fast declining,” observed a thoughtful young 
man. 

“ And it would be so horrid to be left in total darkness,’* 
suggested a timid young lady. 

“ Especially if any accident should happen,” added an ap- 
prehensive young lady — no other than Tilly. 

There was a pause. 

“ Well, what shall we do ?” asked one, impatiently. ‘‘Let 
us do something, and get home some time to-night.” 

“I’ll tell you,” proposed Philip Kirke ; “let us all drive 
to the mountain, and leave Mary and Tilly at home — that 
will be an additional drive — then on our way back to the 
village others may be left at their homes by the way, as cou’* 
venience may suggest. What do you all say?” 


AN APKIL SHOWEH. 


289 


Ail acquiesced. 

“ And let’s^o it from here to the mountain,” suggested a 
youlhful farmer, who, by the expression “ go it,” designed tc 
convey some idea of extreme speed. 

“ So fast that the bells wont have lime to rattle,’ addeo 
another, by way of enlarging on the proposition. 

Well, away then I” said one, as all prepared to move om 
the road, “and best horse in front! Gome up! Galang ! 
Hurrah ! Who ’ll beat to the mountain ?” 

Catching a spirit of emulation, all now drove forward at 
headlong speed; and the way the snow flew; and the way 
the bells rattled ; and the way the road seemed to glide from 
beneath the festive party ; and the way the trees, and bushes 
and fences, and fields, and woods, and houses, and barns flew 
by in quick succession ; and the way the light sleighs leaped 
over little eminences, and swept round curves in the road ; 
and the way the merry party laughed, and shouted, and 
cheered, and rallied each other — the foremost calling to the 
hindmost and asking them if they had stopped entirely, or 
whether they might be expected at Mr. Tate’s house by day- 
light ; and the way the dogs barked along the route, and were 
answered by others not along the route, was, altogether, to 
say the least of it, marvelous. 

“ Who ’s ahead ?” asked John Duffey, when they had ar- 
rived within a mile of Mary’s home. 

“ Phil Kirke is now,” was the response. 

** I ’ll pass him !” exclaimed John. 

“ And I'll pass you !" said George Eoland, suddenly ply- 
ing his whip and taking the start of John. 

John also hastily used his whip, and the two horses, draw- 
ing the light vehicles after them, shot forward with increased 
swiftness; but that of George, getting the start of' John’s 
pony, exerted hiniself so strenu,ously, that in a few minutes 
George had outstripped all, and found himself the leader of 
the party. Duffey followed him closely until both had passed 
Philip, but he was unable to take the lead. Philip, stung at 
19 


290 


THE WHITE BOCKS. 


being surpassed by George, even in so small a matter, re^ 
solved to make a most desperate effort to recover the position 
ne had lost ; and putting the whip to his horse, he was imme- 
diately dying forward at a pace that promised soon to restore 
him t^'the advance. The horse he drove was a spirited one ; 
and when within half a mile of Ira’s house, he repassed Johc 
Duffcy, and found himself once more in the advance of all 
but George. Their near approach to the end of the route 
rendered Philip more desperate, and he would now almost 
have “ set his life ** on the attempt to outstrip his hated 
enemy. He again plied his whip with increased vigor, was 
soon immediately in the rear of George, and turned aside 
slightly, in order, if possible, to pass. 

Hurrah, Kirke 1” shouted several. 

“Go it Roland !” responded others. 

Kirke did “hurrah,” and Roland did “go it.” Philip 
gained upon him for a moment, until his sleigh was running 
directly by the side of the .other; perceiving which, George 
applied the lash to his horse more freely, and for the space 
of half a minute the two horses kept perfect pace with eajh 
other. 

“Be careful, Phil,” shouted one; “you are approaching a 
steep precipice that runs by the road just ahead!” 

But, reckless of danger, and half maddened, he paid no 
heed to the friendly warning, and onward, with even pace, 
the two equipages flew. They were fast nearing an almost 
perpendicular declivity, two hundred yards in length, which 
ran parallel with the road. It was about one hundred feet 
in depth, and its face was horrent with craggy rocks and 
stunted trees; while at its base flowed a large stream — a 
stream lately rendered famous by Ihe large quantities of pe- 
troleum its banks have produced. The road ran directly 
along the brink of this steep descent, and there was no rail- 
ing, or fence, or anything of the kind for the security of the 
traveler. This precipice was on the right-hand side of the 
road, and it was the right side Philip had chosen — which 


AN APRIL SHOWER. 


29 : 


proved frightfully wronq for him. At the critical moment, 
the horse he drove became excited and unmanageable, made 
a sudden detour to the right, as if to spring away from 
George’s sleigh; and, amid a tempest of screams, Philip, 
Mary, horse, sleigh, and a profusion of buffalo-robes, blan- 
kets and straw, toppled over the brink, and went tumbling 
down the declivity, scattering and lodging here and there 
among the jutting rocks and snow-covered trees, rolling and 
falling, down, down, down, toward the cold waters below. 

The horses were all speedily checked in that moment of 
horror ; and the young men, leaving the animals in the care 
of their fair companions, ctr making them fast to such sap- 
lings as were convenient, rushed to the scene of the pitiable 
wreck. The sleigh was shivered almost to splinters, and 
fragments of it had lodged here and there upon the trehs 
and rocks ; the horse was lying in the bed of the creek, two 
of its legs broken and its head terribly bruised ; Mary, for- 
tunately, had not come in direct contact with any of the 
rocks or trees in her sudden descent, and the snow had saved 
her from any serious bruise ; but she had been unable to 
arrest her downward flight till she had actually landed in 
the creek, where her clothes became saturated with the cold 
water. Philip, however, had come in violent collision with 
a projecting rock, a little way from the brink, and had re- 
ceived a severe contusion on the head, which had rendered 
him insensible ; then, after receiving other bruises in the 
course of his downward progress, had lodged against a small 
tree, whence he was now taken up for dead. Mary was as- 
sisted to the road, and, in her solicitude for him, soon 
forgot her late fearful descent, and her still wet garments. 

“ He ’s dead 1” exclaimed one of the girls, who had not yet 
got sight of the insensible form. 

“Yes, that’s certain,” responded Tilly, who also kept as 
far away as possible. 

“ No, he is not dead,” said John Duffey, who had assisted 
m carrying him up the steep ascent. 


292 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


“ Only a little insensible from a knock on the head/’ added 
Ned Stanton, “ and will soon be well enough.” 

“What shall we do with him ?” asked one. 

“Oh,” responded Mary, “bring him to our house; it is 
only a quarter of a mile or so.” 

“By all means,” urged Tilly; “and some one send the 
doctor up as soon as possible.” 

“Put him in my sleigh,” said John Duffey, “and I will 
drive him up to Mr. Tate’s house. One of you take Mary 
in.” 

“ Here, Mary,” said Will Hempstead, “get into my sleigh.” 
And Mary was assisted in the sleigh, in which there was 
ample room for three. 

The unconscious form of Philip was carefully placed in 
DiifFey’s sleigh ; then all drove slowly toward the adjacent 
house of Ira Tate. 

“ That puts an end to our sport,” suggested a sage indi- 
vidual, as all moved on at a funeral pace. 

“An unhappy end, I fear,” responded one who was an 
adherent of the prepare-for-the-worst-and-hope-for-the-best 
principle. 

“Oh, do you think he’ll die?” asked Tilly, in alarm; for 
she could not help thinking what a terrible thing a death 
would be in their house. • 

This conversation was not carried on within the hearing 
of Mary. 

“ There ’s no knowing,*’ returned the other; “ I ’ve known 
of smaller things to cause death.” 

“ Horrible!” shuddered Tilly. 

“ ^ As long as there is life there is hope,’ you know,” ob- 
served another ; which, so far from restoring the party to 
quietude, rather enhanced their apprehensions ; for that ’s 
what the doctor always says when he is sure his patient can- 
not survive a day. 

“Oh, if he dies I — ” ejaculated Tilly ; and did n’t say what 
the consequence would be. 


AN APRIL SHOWER. 


293 


danger of his dying,” said Ned Stanton. **Oa the 
contrary, it will do him good. Why, if it were not for a 
little such knock now and then, by way of waking up the 
system, no man would ever live to any reasonable age. Such 
accidents are always turned to account. I am really sorry 
it wasn’t myself that fell over the precipice, instead of him.*' 

“ You might go' and throw yourself over yet,” suggested 
one. 

“ I would,** returned Ned, ** only that I want to take Tilly 
home, and drive quickly to the village and send the doctor 
up — as the doctor, you know, can materially assist in making 
this little accident a benefit to Kirke’s future health.” 

On the arrival of the party at the farm-house, Philip was 
again placed, still insensible, upon the bed he had occupied 
after his rescue from the cave ; and Ned Stanton, bidding 
Tilly a hearty adieu, departed, promising to send the doctor 
immediately. 

The rest of the party, most of whom had entered the house 
to see Philip by the light of a candle, in order better to judge 
the extent of his injuries, soon after departed, quietly ex- 
pressing many apprehensions for the sufferer — and thus 
ended the April sleighing-paety. 


CHAPTER XXXr. 

A FEARFUL SUSPICION. 

After the doctor had come and departed, Mary, having 
exchanged her wet clothes for dry ones, hastened to the bed- 
side of Philip, where she found Ira watching. Philip had 
returned to physical consciousness, bub was mentally wander- 


294 


THE WHITE EOCES, 


ing; now and then discoursing most eloquently of strange 
and inexplicable things. 

“ What does the doctor say ?” Mary asked, 

“ He says he do n’t know what to say, but that he will 
3ome back in the course of the day and find out,” was the 
satisfactory reply. 

“ Oh, I wonder if he ’ll get over it,” said Mary. 

Ira could n’t say, really. 

“ How has he been injured?” Mary asked. 

“ There is a cut on his head, which was bleeding w^hen the 
doctor came, and a bruise or two on his body, which, the doc- 
tor says, ain’t much.” 

If Mary had been in a jesting frame of mind, she might 
have wondered whether he meant the body was n’t much, or 
the bruises. She did not speak, however ; and Ira, suddenly 
remembering something else the doctor had said, resumed : 

He says that if he ain’t got hurt in’ardly, and do n’t get a 
fever, he ’ll soon be well.” 

Both w^ere silent for awhile, and, at length, Mary said : 

Uncle, we have disturbed you. Eeturn to your bed, 
and — ” 

“ You had better go yourself, child,” he interrupted. 

“ No — oh, no I I could not sleep I So, go yourself, uncle, 
that you may feel more fresh when the morning comes. I 
will watch for the present ; and, should he get worse, I will 
call you. Besides, Aunt Eliza is up : and Tilly will not go to 
bed either.” 

Ira, to save the trouble of talking, as much as for any other 
reason, reluctantly withdrew ; and Mary was left alone with 
the sufferer. 

A white bandage encircled his forehead, and, being deathly 
pale, his appearance was quite ghastly. Now and then he^ 
uttered extemporaneous flights of words, with such touching 
emphasis and such effective gesticulations, that an orator, or 
a tragedian, might have been benefited, in point of instruc- 
tion, by being present. By and by Tilly entered. 


k PEARFCt. StTSPIOIOir. 


^95 


“ Oh, Tilly I** exclaimed Mary, no longer caring to conceal 
the feeling she entertained for Philip, “ I am afraid he will 
die ! Oh, I never told you how well I love him !” 

Tilly cried — not so much for the sufferer, as with the 
thought : “ What if it had been my Ned, instead of him !” 
Eemembering that it was n’t however, she suddenly concluded 
that she had great reason to rejoice, instead of weep ; and the 
abruptness with which she returned to moderate cheerfulness 
was quite wonderful. 

At this juncture, Philip, who had been all the while mut- 
tering, elevated his voice, and descanted of death, fire, fiends, 
and all sorts of immoderate things. To add to the general 
effect, a feverish spot of glowing red had come upon each 
cheek, and an unusual fire gleamed from his dark eyes. 

“ Oh, Tilly, he will die ! I know he will I” Mary exclaimed, 
in anguish. “ Since the accident I have experienced a strange 
feeling that I never felt before ! — one that can be no less than 
the foreshadowing of some dreadful calamity !” 

“ Oh, nonsense ! No danger of his dying I” returned Tilly, 
who, nevertheless, felt sure he would; “ He won’t, you know I 
Do n’t fear 1 He won’t die ! He can’t die I I ’m sure of it I’* 
All this in default of any better argument. 

“ But oh, how he is talking I” 

“ Merely talking’ in his sleep,” said Tilly. 

‘‘But see how feverish he is.’* 

“ That’s a good sign — a healthy color.** 

“ But his wild look ! See — ” 

“ Oh, Bill, take me from this accursed place !** Philip 
exclaimed. “ Take me away. I ’ll stay here no longer!’* 

“ Oh, hear that!” Mary exclaimed! 

“What does he say?” queried Tilly, who had certainly 
heard as distinctly as Mary. 

“Oh, he don’t know what he is saying!” returned Mary. 
“ I wish the doctor would come again !” 

“ He ’ll be better by daylight, surely,” said Tilly, whose 


296 


THE WHITE HOCKS. 


secret appreliensions rather admonished her that he would 
probably expire about that time. 

“ Bill, you ’re a fool !” Philip vociferated. 

“ Whom does he mean by Bill?” asked Tilly, 

“ I do n’t know : some old friend, no doubt. Oh, Tilly I 
what shall I do?” 

Thus appealed to. Miss Tilly proceeded to give a little 
advice on that point, occupying five minutes or so, the sub- 
stance of which was, not to do anything particular. 

“ Go and sleep, Tilly,” said Mary, when Philip had grown 
more quiet; “I will stay here.” 

‘‘But,” objected Tilly, “you need rest, and — ” 

“Rest!” returned Mary. “ Yes, I need rest; but I can see 
no rest till he is well. No, Tilly, there is no rest for me /’’ 

Alas, Mary 1 Doomed never more to see rest in this 
world 1 

Tilly withdrew ; but, instead of seeking repose, joined Aunt 
Eliza in the kitchen. The latter had not visited the bed-side 
of Philip, at all ; probably fearing that, should she witness 
his sufiferings, she might be induced to relent, in a measure, 
toward the. male race. 

Philip, after half-an-hour of comparative quiet, grew rest- 
less, and began to manifest an inclination to promulgate the 
secrets of his heart. 

“ Ha I ha 1” he exclaimed, wildly ; “ your life is in my hands, 
and you die ! Hah 1 hah 1 Keep your powder dry, after 
this, and you ’ll stand a better chance in a duel 1 I knew 
I ’d kill him 1 What a fool he was to fight me I But, how 
horrible he looks 1” he went on, with a changed manner 
*• How pale I How ghastly 1 How the blood flows from his 
neck! How his glazed eyes stare 1 Take him away !” And 
he seemed ready to start from his bed in terror. 

Mary shuddered. What terrible affair was the delirious 
man raving of? Could it be possible that he had ever been a 
duelist? — that he had “killed his man?” Preposterous! Had 
Buch been the case, would he not, long ere this, have confided 


A ffiAUFltt SUSP^010^^ 


29t 


it to her? Certainly! Oh! now she had it. He was only 
thinking of the robher he had killed in Weston 1 That was 
it. How foolish I But list 1 

“ Ah !” he went on, in a depressed tone, “ what a vile den 
is this 1 How damp 1 how dark 1 how full of crime 1 Have I 
come to this ? A forger 1 a robber I Who are these, my com- 
panions? The outcast rubbish of this city: thieves, robbers, 
forgers, murderers? Is this — mn this be myself? How long 
since I was an innocent, bright-eyed boy at school? How 
long since I was an honest lad at college ? How long since 
my nature changed? — Since I became a — a — murderer f 
Away from me, vile associates I Culprits, criminals, away ! 
I ’ll have no more to do with you 1 You contaminate me I 
Away I away 1 I Tl lead an honest life, henceforth I” 

Mary stared at her delirious lover, in dread perplexity. 
What could such words mean ? Could it be possible that the 
man on whom she had centered her affections was a reformed 
robber? Not to say — No I oh, no! that could not be! No 
doubt he was only rehearsing some thrilling tale which he had 
read, and which had now chanced to intrude itself upon his 
bewildered brain 1 

“Bill ! Bill 1 You fool !” Philip- suddenly ejaculated. ^ “Do 
you think to make a murderer of me ? — a murderer f — and 
that for GOLD ? Take away the gold ! I will have none of 
it! I will not touch it! I will not look at it! It is the 
price of blood! — Blood ! — Blood !” 

“ Philip ! Philip !” Mary exclaimed, seating herself at the 
bedside, and gazing earnestly upon the flushed face. “ Philip ' 
do n’t you know me ?” 

“Away! away with the gold!” he continued. “Hide it 
in the crevices of this wretched cave, and let me never look 
upon it ! Bill, you ’re a murderer ! — and you 've made me 
one r' 

“ He must be thinking of Delany’s Cave,” murmured Mary, 
half-sobbing. “ He imagines he is still wandering about there. 
But what of the gold? What of the murders?” 


298 


THE WHITE EOCkS. 


“ I t^ll you I am going to leave you, and live an honest 
life!” Philip continued, violently. “ I will live no longer in 
this cave, with such low, thieving, murdering companions I 
I ’ll repent — if a murderer can repent 1 — and — and what 1 
You dare not betray me to the people of the settlement 1 If 
you do I ’ll hunt you down, like wild beasts, till I have your 
lives ! Oh, it will do you no good to flee I I ’ll follow you 
to the world’s end but I will be revenged, if you betx-ay me 1 
I ’ll hang upon your tracks as a blood-hound 1 I ’ll give you 
no rest, day nor night! I’ll torment you till life itself 
becomes a burden to you 1 — ay, till you thirst for the reposa 
5 fhell!” 

Philip grew more and more violent, as he approached the 
termination of this eifusion, executing the last sentence with 
extraordinary efiect. 

Philip 1 Philip 1” Mary exclaimed. All her heart-rending 
anguish concentrated in a burst of passionate words, “ Philip 1 
Philip I Don’t talk so strangely! Oh, do not, or you’ll 
break my heart! You are saying such frightful words! Do 
you not know me? Do you not know who I am? This is I — 
Mary White — your Mary ! — your own Mary ! Oh, speak to 
me ! Speak to me, if you love me !” 

White?” he whispered, hoarsely. “ That name ! White? 
Mary White? Not poor old Harry White’s daughter ? Not 
his daughter? Her whom he so loved? For whom he lived? 
What ! Away ! Do not touch me ! I ’ll contaminate you I 
I am covered with hlood! — ^yes, with blood! — his blood!— 
and for gold ! — gold ! — gold ! Bill, you fiend, it ’s all your 
fault! I’ll kill you! I did not strike the old man down! 
You lie, if you say I did ! Sam, you did it ! I only caught 
his horse ! You knocked him down upon the road, and you 
and Joe beat him upon the head, till I saw the blood start 
out among his silvery hair! The pale moonlight shone on him 
through the trees ! — and, oh, such a ghastly sight !” 

He was ^uiet for a minute ; then, in a subdued tone, went 
on: 


A J^EARFUL SUSPICI6IT. 


299 


** Carefully now! Handle him carefully! We must place 
him in the boat, and take him to the cave. He must not die! 
He onust not? He shall not! No — and yet — I dare not let 
him live ! Why, he would tell every one that I am a robber 
and murderer ! — that I dwell in a cave with a clan of devils ! 
He must die 1 He must die I and all for gold ! — gold ! — 
gold!” 

Philip had arisen almost to a sitting postuie duiing the 
delivery of these words, and he now sank back upon his pil- 
low, as if exhausted. Mary sat motionless, liKe one in a trance, 
her eyes fixed upon the opposite wall. In a moment, Philip, 
his eyes wandering vacantly about the apartment, and his 
arms performing sundry wild gesticulations, continued, in a 
low, husky voice : 

“ Why, how pale he looks ! Remove those drops of blood 
from his haggard face I How he stares at me ! I tell you,” 
he went on, beginning to grow violent again, “I did not do 
it ! Old man, it was not I that struck the blow ! But why 
did you confide to me that you would travel that road with 
goldf I would not have waylaid you then. But I say it 
was not I that murdered you I No, I would not do such a 
thing ! You have been too kind to me ! Have I not often 
sat by your fireside, and at your table ? — and would I murde: 
you, and that for goldf No ! I v/ill not touch the gold! I 
swear it ! I saw a drop of your blood upon it, and should 1 
touch it, it would stain my hand forever ! Take your gold 1 
Take it— go to your home, and tell Mary that I saved your 
life, instead of taking it ! Do not tell her that I am the 
leader of this band of robbers and murderers, and that w^^ 
live in a hole in the earth, like serpents ! If you do — What I 
Dying! No, no, no! You must not die! If you d:*e, theL 
I am a murderer, indeed !” 

Mary still sat, pale and motionless as a marble statue, yet 
heard and noted every word of the. wicked man’s ravings , 
and such a fearful suspicion had seized upon her mind, and 
80 suddenly, that her senses were almost paralysed. She could 


200 


THE WHITE ROCHS. 

not move, nor cry, nor scream ; but sat motionless, as tbougb 
waiting to bear more. Philip again started suddenly from 
bis. pilicw, and, in a low and almost unearthly voice, ex- 
claimed : 

“ Lead ? Dead ? Can be be dead ? He is not — you know 
he is not. Bill ! If so, why does be stare at me so ? Can a 
dead man fix bis eyes upon bis murderer? Perhaps be can. 
See bis cold eyes ! They are riveted upon me, and I cannot 
look away ! Is that the grim stare of death ? Why does be 
look thus upon me ? Because I murdered him ! Because I 
betrayed him? /.y, that ’s it ! Take him away ! He is dead ! 
Take him far away, and bury him deep in the earth, else in 
the solemn night bis spirit will haunt us in this dismal cave ! 
His blood will come and dwell in horrid spots upon these 
walls, and his very bones will rattle in the dark corners! 
Away wdth him 1 Away with him ! I Ve murdered him, I 
know, but I cannot bring him to life! Take him away! 
Take him away I Let me look no more on the stark form of 
the old man I have deceived and murdered 1 Let me look no 
longer on the glassy eyes that are gazing now upon me with 
a mute curse for the bloody deed I have done I — the black 
deed I have done for gold ! — for gold 1” 

Philip fell back completely exhausted; the flush left his 
cheeks, his eyes closed, and he became deadly pale. 

The faint light of early morning came struggling in 
through the. half-closed window; and the expiring candle 
that stood upon the table shed a ghastly and lurid glow 
about the room, and especially upon the face of the wretched 
man. A moment of silence ensued within, while, without, 
" the cock’s shrill clarion” proclaimed the near approach of 
day. The door opened, and Mary’s cousin entered, exclaim- 
ing : 

"'What IS the matter? Is he still delirious? Why, how 
;oulook!” 

Mary arose, staggered toward her cousin, tottered, and fell 
swooning to the floor. 


A FEARFUL SUSRICIOI^. 

Tilly uttered a scream that aroused her famer, woe ha<' 
lain down upon a settee in ths^ next room; and startled Aunt 
Eliza, who sat dozing in the kitchen ; and but for the exi- 
gency of the occasi®n, she would certainly have s'wooned, 
herself. Ira and Aunt Eliza soon appeared at the door, and 
simultaneously jumped to the conclusion that Philip had 
expired suddenly, and that Mary had naturally fainted in 
consequence ; but a little investigation disclosed the fact that 
Philip was still alive, though lying in a very ominous stupor, 
totally unconscious. 

Mary was lifted from the floor, and carried to another 
room, when restoratives, chiefly in the shape of camphor, 
were applied with eminent success. Aunt Eliza consolingly 
informed her, immediately on her resuscitation, that Philip 
was still alive, and that there were the most flattering hopes 
of his remaining alive for a long time to come, which piece 
of information had not quite the prodigiously good effect 
anticipated. 

Before the April sun the heavy snow melted gradually 
away, the landscapes and the mountains once more looked 
forth, and in a few days the trees began tc hud and blossom^ 
and the grass to shoot up. 

For several weeks the good doctor ol Weston had tw’o 
patients at the house of Ira Tate, both requiring daily care. 
As he made it a point to administer to his patients as few 
potent drugs ^s possible, and as he observed this rule in the 
case of Mary and Philip, they gradually revived : and within 
a week after the accident he found himself able to pronounce 
both out of danger. Philip rallied faster than Mary, and 
when he found himself able to return to the village,— which 
was a little more than two weeks after the accident, — Mary 
had not yet left her room. She was visibly improving, phy- 
sically, however ; but none knew how sick at heart she was 
Philip fancied that her adieu, on his departure, was very 
cold ; but he attributed it to her illness. He spoke ver) 
soothing words to her on taking his leave, urging her, for he^' 


tHE White feocis. 


m 

own icvke, to cheer up; and she almost felt like trusting him 
again. But, ah ! the terrible words he had uttered in his 
ravings ! How could they be accounted for, unless her lover 
was actually a party to the murder of her father ? Oh, could 
it be possible that he was leagued with the very band of 
robbers that had so long infested the neighborhood ? “ If 

such a thing be barely possible,” thought Mary, “ I dare not 
marry him ! Oh, it cannot be ! — and yet, my suspicions once 
aroused, however unjust they may be, I cannot be united 
with him till every doubt is set at rest. And what shall I 
do? — shall I ask him explicitly if he murdered my father? 
Why, if innocent, what would he think of such a question ? 
and yet — Ha 1 what better means of testing the matter ? If 
he is guilty- — but, oh, I dare not think he is ! — but if he is, 
how he must start and turn pale ! — how he must be struck 
dumb, if, when we are alone, I abruptly say — ‘ Dear Philip, 
did you murder my father?’ But if innocent, how his face 
would glow with wonder at such a strange question ! He 
would think me a little out of my mind, or that I was jesting, 
and he would reply accordingly. What better finesse could 
I resort to? So surely as I ask the unexpected question, I 
will see guilt or innocence written upon his face. I am 
resolved to try it ! Oh, Heaven ! forbid that I should see a 
trace of guilt upon his face, when the trial comes 1 — for oh, I 
love him still I I love him still 1” 


CHAPTER XXXIL 

A LASTING SEPARATION. 

** The course of true love never will run smooth,” it has 
been stated by those pretending to know ; and there is little 
doubt that almost every one’s experience in that line would 
go to sustain the assertion. It is difficult to see any plausible 


A LASTING SEPARATION. 


303 


reason why ** the course of true love should not, as a rule, 
“run smooth;” hut when we come to examine the testimony 
of thousands and thousands — ay, thousands of thousands — • 
upon this point, we are reluctantly led to exclaim, in the lan- 
guage of Polonius : 

“ Tis true, ’tis true ; 

And pity ’tis, ’tis true 

or, in plain parlance, there is no doubt of the truth of the 
adage that “ the course of true love will never run smooth/* 
and that such is the case, is much to be deplored by mortals 
— most of whom are prone to love. 

The case of Mr. John DufFey, and Miss Maggie Eoss, was 
not one calculated to assist in proving the adage a fallacy. 
John had visited Maggie several times since his declaration 
of love, and each had become unreservedly convinced that 
the other’s love was true, pure, holy, self-sacrificing, abiding, 
permanent and everlasting ; and, in fact, that there were not 
enough adjectives in the English vocabulary to define its 
superior quality. They believed that others had loved before 
them ; indeed, they had but little doubt of the fact ; but the 
idea that any happy couple, at any age of the world, had 
ever loved, or would ever love, “ as they loved,” they re- 
garded as wholly preposterous. Such a thing could n’t be. 

On a pleasant day in April, long after all traces of the 
untimely snow had disappeared, and when vegetation w^aa 
fast awaking for a summer career, John DufFey, mounted 
upon the inevitable pony, visited New Market. He really 
had, on this occasion, some business to transact in that village 
for his father ; but it must not be concealed that he resolved 
from the outset not to return without paying the accustomed 
visit to the creature Avhom he deemed so indispensable to his 
existence. Accordingly, having performed his errand in 
New Market, (a la “business before pleasure,”) he remounted 
his pony, and soon had the satisfaction of drawing rein in 
front of the neat little “brick house with the white paling 
fence.” He knew Mr. Boss himself was not withii’s. having 


304 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


fteen him at his store in ihe village, and having been urged 
by him to ** call at the house,” which h.z had, with apparent 
reluctance, promised to do. On knocking at the door, he was 
admitted by Miss Maggie, in person; and it must be confessed 
that he was a little siirp ised — considering that no one else 
was present — that she did not rush spontaneously into his 
arms. His surprise — painful surprise ! — was heightened, too, 
by an almost unmistakable display of coldness on her part. 

** How do you do, Maggie? I am so glad to see you !” he 
exclaimed, warmly, grasping both her hands, with his accus- 
tomed cordiality. 

“ Pretty well. How do you do ?” she replied, and imme- 
diately took the liberty of withdrawing one of hei; hands to 
close the door. 

“ This is delightful weather,” John remarked. 

‘‘Very.” 

John, who had of late felt himself “quite at home” in 
Mr. Ross’s house, walked straight to the little parlor, and 
seated himself. Maggie also entered ; whereupon DufFey 
observed that he hoped Mrs. Ross was quite well. 

“ Quite well, I thank you, sir.” 

She thanked him, sir! This cold, formal manner of her’s 
to-day was not only inexplicable, but almost intolerable. 

“ Is she at home, to-day ?” he asked. 

“ Not to-day,” was the brief reply. And Maggie seated 
herself as far from her lover as possible, without going out- 
side the room. 

John ventured to inquire whether Mrs. Ross had gone far? 

“ No, not far,” was the laconic reply. 

“You are not well, I fear,” suggested John, entirely at a 
loss to account for Maggie’s cool manner. 

“ As well as usual, I believe,” was the icy reply. 

“ Have you been ill lately?” Duffey asked, determined to 
sift the matter. 

“ Not at all. Do I look as though I had ?” Maggi* 
turned, in a tone that almost froze her lover. 


A LASTING SEPAEATION. 


305 


N — n — -no — I can’t say — ’* 

“Well?” 

John did not speak again for a brief space, hoping that 
Maggie would break the silence. But she sat immovable. 
During the conversation she had not once fixed her eyes on 
him. 

“ Maggie 1” 

“^Vell?” 

“ Maggie, what is the matter with you?” John asked, pas- 
sionately. 

“Nothing. Do you see anything the matter with me?*' 
she replied, coldly as ever. 

“ Maggie,” he went on, earnestly, “ is this the reception I meet 
with at your hands, after looking forward to this day with joy- 
ful anticipation, for — iwo weeks ? Yes, for two weeks has the 
errand been projected which brought me to New Market to- 
day ; and during all that time I have lived — ay, eaten, drank 
and slept! — only in anticipation of the pleasure of seeing 
yon on this occasion — you, who are all the world to me!” 

All-the-world-to-him was silent. 

“ Maggie,” he continued, “ I know it is but a trifling jour- 
ney from Weston to New Market, — especially when the 
weather is so pleasant, — ^but were the distance a hundred 
times as great, and the wildest storms of winter raging, the 
journey would still be trifling compared with that I would 
undergo to see you 1 I would scorn alike the heat of the 
tropics, and the snow and ice of Greenland, did they inter- 
vene between you and me 1 I would row across the Atlantic 
and the Pacific Oceans in an open boat, — I would traverse all 
the deserts of the globe, without shoes, to meet you ! — and 
to — to get the — the welcome kiss, which — which I fondly but 
vainly koped, — ” and John was unable to proceed. 

Maggie was visibly touched. 

" Oh,” exclaimed John, in the agony of heart which Vni 
bare thought engendered, “ can it be possible that you no 
longer love me?” 

20 


SOS 


THE WHITE ROCES. 


** You — you wrong me — if — you think that,” returneo 
Maggie, having found utterance at last. 

“ Then what — oh, what has transpired, that you receive 
me so coldly to-day?” 

“ I love you as — as ever — I never ceased — to — to love you; 
but — but — I have a — a cousin in Weston, — a Miss — Miss — ” 
And Maggie burst into tears. 

John thought it very inconsistent of Maggie to reproach 
him because she chanced to have a cousin who resided in 
Weston. He felt sure that it was no fault of his. He had 
never advised her to have a cousin in Weston ; he had never 
urged that cousin to establish her residence in Weston ; nor 
had he ever even hinted to that cousin the propriety of re- 
maining in Weston — that he was aware of. He had never 
known before that a cousin of Maggie’s dwelt in Weston, nor 
could he now, in a dozen guesses, have told who that cousin was. 

“Well?” he said, impatiently waiting for Maggie to go on, 
and feeling sure that he could exonerate himself from what- 
soever blame might seemingly attach itself to him relative 
to the existence of the (no doubt) annoying cousin. 

“ It is — is Miss — Miss McKnight — Miss Jennie McKnight, 
fobbed Maggie. 

“ Well, I know her. She is your cousin, is she?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, what of her?” 

“ She — she was here last — last week.” And the tears fell 
fast. 

This was wonderful. Had he sent her? Was he, in any 
wise, the cause of the visit? Had he even told her that 
Maggie would doubtless be happy to see her? Not that he 
Knew of. No, certainly not. So far from being ever before 
cognizant of the relationship that existed between th* two 
ladies, he had never even learned ihM. they W9ra 
to each other. 

*■ Tru ftay she was here V* 

"Yes— yesl” 


A LASTING SEPARATION. 


307 


“Did — did slie stay long?” asked Duffey, who, for the life 
of him, could think of nothing else to say. 

Long enough to — to break — ” and Maggie could saj no 
more. 

What could she mean? Miss McKnight had broken— 
what? Had she smashed the mirror? had she dashed the 
clock to pieces by a blow with a chair or fire-poker ? had she 
shattered the window ? had she knocked down three or four 
shelves of China? Miss McKnight was now a young lady 
of thirty-five or forty, and John had never yet known her to 
be so naughty. 

“Break what, Maggie?” he asked, after being, for a little 
while, lost in a complication of miscellane-ous surmises. 

“ My heart I” returned Maggie, letting it out in one sudden 
burst of anguish ; and she sobbed more than ever. 

“ Maggie, dear Maggie, I cannot comprehend you. Pray 
tell me what affects you so,” pleaded John, earnestly. 

“ She told me of — of — some things,” sobbed Maggie. 

“ What things ?” 

“ Oh, John, did I ever — could I ever — ” 

John hoped not. 

“ — Ever have thought it !” 

“ Maggie, do speak plainly ! Do n’t go on so. or — and 
John hinted that he would not undertake to answer for the 
consequences to his own heart. 

“ She told me of — of — a — a sleighing-party 1 Oh, John, 
did I ever think it 1” 

“ Think what ?” 

“ Jennie herself did not go that night — ■” 

“ True ; if I remember correctly. Miss McKnight was not 
one of the party,” returned John. 

“ But she told me that you went, and — ” 

“And what?” 

“ She did n’t know what young lady you took 1” 

“ Maggie r* 


308 


TEE WHITE KOCKS. 


John, my name is Miss Eoss,” admonished Maggie, with 
an attempt at the indignant. 

Maggie, my name is Mr. DufFey,” he retorted, catching 
the same spirit. 

“I know — oh, I know r* she rejoined; ‘‘but I thought I 
would love to call you John — as in the happy days assed 
forever — once more before — ” 

“ Before what?” asked John, who now felt his senses swim- 
ming. 

“ Before we part for ever,” returned Maggie, with a firm- 
ness that was awful. 

“ Maggie!” 

“ Hereafter we must be strangers,” she continued, by way 
of more fully disclosing the frightful resolve she had made. 
“ And, all I ask — is — is — as the years go by, you — you may 
sometimes think — ” 

“Maggie! Maggie! Would you — oh, would you? — ” 

“ Yes, for your own happiness, I have resolved to — to give 
— you up — give you up to the young lady — no docbt much 
prettier than I am ! — whom you were so agreeable as to — to 
take sleigh-riding, for — for — a — whole night! Yes, to her, 
if it will only make you happy, I commend you — although 
— although — it will break my heart ! But take her — and— 
may you be happy !” 

“ Maggie, wait till you have heard me,” pleaded John. 

“ Oh, I have heard enough ! Too much ! Too much ! ” 

“ But listen : — shall I marry the person I took sleigh-riding 
that night?” 

“ Yes, — ^yes, — if it will make you happy, and I hope it 
will.” 

“ If you will not marry me, Maggie, then the very person 
whom I took sleigh-riding is the one I will marry, — and the 
only one I ever can marry.” 

“Oh, I knew it! I knew it!” exclaimed Maggie, with a 
burst of anguish, now fully convinced thac some wretched 


A LASTING SEPARATION. 


S09 


joung lady at Weston had irrevocably stolen her lover’s affec- 
tions. 

“But you have not yet learned who it was,” sai(l John. 

Oh, I don’t want to know,” Maggie returned. “ I think 
it would kill me to hear her name I I suppose it is Laura,, 
or Ida, or Minnie, or some sweet name. But, oh, do n’t tell it 
to me ! Let me not hear it spoken !” 

“ But I must tell you, Maggie,” replied John : ** it was no 
one — and such must be my future partner, if I am doomed 
to live without you.” 

This was something which Maggie had not looked for, and 
she was taken slightly aback. She did not speak, but hung 
her head, while her lover went on. 

“ Yes, Maggie,” he said, I accompanied the sleighing- 
party, but no one went with me. How I did wish that you 
had been there, to sit beside me in my sleigh, and enjoy with 
me the evening’s sport ! But you were not there ; I could 
not take another, and I went alone, even at the risk of being 
called selfish. I would not have gone at all, only that I 
have been rallied so much of late about losing my former 
spirit ; and about becoming an old man all of a sudden ; and 
about growing sedate, and even misanthropic ; and about 
having become very religious, and having resolved to forego 
the pleasures of this’ world ; and so, little thinking that it 
would cause a lasting separation between you and me, I, to 
prove that my neighbors did n’t know everything, attended 
the sleighing party, in a sleigh by myself. Could you blame 
me for that. No, I think not, when I tell you that I wau 
thinking of you during the whole evening, and wishing that 
you were by my side !” 

•‘Oh, John, forgive me!” exclaimed Maggie, arising to meet 
her lover, who was drawing near, and throwing herself so 
energetically into his arms that he nearly let her fall. “ Oh, 
forgive me I I should never have doubted you 1 Only for- 
give me, and I will never be so foolish again !” 

He forgave her, and even stayed for dinner ; after which 


810 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


he returned to Weston, more dearly loved, and ’oving more 
dearly, than ever before. 

It is related of this happy pair, who more and more fre- 
quently saw each other as the pleasant spring and summer 
days rolled on, that they did not quarrel again for nearly 
three weeks. 


CHAPTER XXXIIL 

THE SPY-GLASS. 

Philip Kirke visited Mary a number of times, during the 
interval between his return to the village after his illness, 
and the projected wedding-day. He must have been very 
dull not to have observed her changed manner toward him. 
He did observe it, and several times asked the cause ; but 
she answered evasively, and failed, from time to time, to sum 
up sufficient moral coilrage to carry out the singular finesse 
by which she had resolved to prove his innocence or guilt. 
At times, while in his company, Mary felt that her suspicions 
must be absurd, and that to entertain them for a momecd was 
truly ridiculous; but then again, when she was alone, and 
began to reflect impartially on the words she had heard him 
utter, she was constrained to regard it as almost certain that 
he was her father’s murderer. And, oh, what agony the 
fearful contemplation gave her ! What a gnawing at ffie 
heart it produced ! what anguish of spirit ! what a madden- 
ing of the brain ! How it shocked the mind I how it bowed 
down the body! What I he on whom she had, for several* 
years, bestowed the deepest and holiest affections of her 


TH® SPY-GLASS. 


S\1 

heal t — Tie a robber and a murderer ? He, seemingly so frank, 
and noble, and brave — he a treacherous villain? He an in- 
human wretch? his heart full of knavery and deceit? hia 
hands red with blood, and his soul black with crime ? 

** 0, horrible ! 0, horrible ! Most horrible I” 

Ah, cruel fortune ! inexorable fate ! what is there in such 
a foul nature to win the pure heart of an innocent girl ? Is 
it the same deadly infatuation which the serpent uses to lure 
the unsuspecting bird to his poisonous fangs? 

On the afternoo/ o-f the twelfth of May, Philip visited the 
rendezvous of the robbers, and remained a long time in con- 
versation with Bill and the other worthies. When he left 
the cave, which was about three o’clock, he resolved to pro- 
ceed at once to Ira Tate’s, for the purpose of consulting Mary 
regarding some minor arrangements for the important affair 
projected for the ensuing day — namely, the wedding. He 
had no sooner left the cave than he began to experience a 
strange inward sense of some unseen presence hovering about 
him. In passing through the wood, he turned often, and cast 
quick glances to the right, to the left, and behind him ; and 
manifested every indication of feeling ill at ease. All the 
way through the thick woods he imagined that a kind of in- 
v'isible cloud hovered about him, and floated steadily along 
as he walked — always keeping pace with him* Several times 
he felt that some one must be following him, hanging upon 
his steps, and watching his movements; and he frequently 
turned about him with a nervous, abrupt manner, and scanned 
the quiet and intricate path he had just traveled, but always 
without effect — nothing was to be seen. Still the strange 
cloud, like some ill vapor from the spirit world, crept along 
with him in his walk. Sometimes it assumed a silent voice, 
and whispered to Philip that there was some one behind 
him ; then he would turn about with a start and see'— noth 
ing ; then the voice would whisper that it was behind him 
still — that it turned when he turned, and always remained, 
hanging at his back. Thus, in silent, indefinable terror, with 


S12 


THE WHITE EOCKS. 


many a fitful start, lie made his way to the road. But now 
that he was clear of the woods, and the sun could shine uji^on 
him, his uneasiness took a new shape : his own shadow be- 
came a source of annoyance to him. While he walked, he 
fancied that it was not, as it should be, the counterpart of his 
own motions ; but that it danced about him, and stared at 
him, and grinned horribly, and made hideous faces, and 
taunted him in a mute way that was quite monstrous. Once 
he imagined that it had actually taken to its heels and run 
away from him ; but before he could turn, it had, apparent- 
ly, hurried back to its place again ; and there it lay, flat upon 
the dusty road, looking as grave, quiet and solemn, and as 
far removed from any visible inclination to play the antic as 
the shadow of the veriest Bishop or D.D. This appeared 
more provoking than anything else, and Philip actually 
stamped upon it with rage ; but this having no effect, he 
turned, walked swiftly on again, and never looked back, nor 
to the right or left, till he reached the cross-roads, a mile 
east of the village. He then turned at once toward the 
mountain, resolved to walk all the way to the farm-house, as 
he had often done before. The sun being nearly in the west, 
his shadow was now almost in front of him, so that he could 
keep his eye upon it; and it was really remarkable how well 
it behaved. Still he imagined that there was another shadow 
behind him, over him, or somewhere near; and he frequently 
turned him about to observa whether any material form or 
figure, might be pursuing him. On one of these occasions he 
descried a horseman coming after him at a brisk trot; and 
he discovered, as he came nearer, that it was Ned Stanton. 
Ned soon overtook him, and his presence speedily dispelled 
all the strange dread which had haunted him since leaving 
the cave. 

‘‘Hilloa, Phil! That you?” Ned called out, on arriving 
within speaking distance. 

'*Yes, Ned,” Philip returned, assuming a manner of easy 


THE SPY-GLASS. 


313 


gayeoy, “ and tnat is you — dressed up, too ! Now wliere can 
you be going?"' 

“ Why, I have an errand up near the mountain,*" Ned re- 
turned. 

“ Yes, 1 11 venture you have — at Ira Tate’s, too,** said 
Philip. 

“ I may call there before I go back,** rejoined Ned; “ but 
I swear — ** 

“ No use protesting,*’ interrupted Philip ; “ you know you 
are going directly and unequivocally to Ira’s.** 

“Well,” admitted Ned, “perhaps I will go there first. But 
where might you be going now ?” 

“ Oh, I am merely taking a little walk toward the moun- 
tain,” returned Philip. “It is a beautiful afternoon, and a 
walk is calculated to do one good, you know.” 

“Very true. Now, if I had known I should fall in with 
you, I should have walked also.” 

“ Then y^u wouldn’t have overtaken me.” 

“ Neither would 1 1 Now, that ’s a puzzling kind of prob- 
lem : if I ride, I overtake you, <?.Dd wish I had walked ; and 
if I walk, I do n’t overtake you, and wish I had ridden. I 
can’t make it out at all. I cannot see by what means we 
might have chanced together to-day, both on foot ; unless, 
indeed, I had started first, and — and then you would not 
have overtaken me without you had come on horseback. Oh, 
dear ! — But say, Phil, suppose you get on my horse and 
ride awhile.” 

“No, no; keep your seat,” replied Philip. “I would as 
lief walk. Thank you for the kind offer, however. If you 
are not in a hurry, you might ride slowly, that I can keep 
with you.” 

“ Certainly. I am in no- hurry. I am glad to have your 
company to the mountain. A-hem ! So, you concluded to 
take a walk this fine afternoon ? Ah, Phil, you rogue, you 
are going a courting I You know you arel” 

“ I might venture to prefer the same charge against you,” 


814 


WHITE 


returned Philip. ** This dressing-up business, In the middle 
of the week, looks suspicious. I would be far from aston- 
ished, Ned, if a certain young lady’s name should become 
Mrs. Stanton before twenty-four hours.” 

“ Nonsense ! Ha, ha ! You *11 know before twenty-four 
hours whether it does or not ! But it would n t astonish me 
if a certain other young lady’s name should become Mrs. 
Kirke before — ay, before twenty-four hours,” said Ned, hy 
way of counter-sally. 

“ Ha, ha I you ’ll know in twenty-four hours whether or 
not,” returned Philip, by way of a counter-retort. 

Other topics were introduced, and the verbose Ked got into 
the way of “telling one,” to which Philip listened attentive- 
ly, and which lasted nearly all the way to the mountain. He 
spoke in his usual precipitate manner, and the words dropped 
from his tongue so fast that if the story he related were writ- 
ten, it might be very appropriately written in a running 
hand ; and it contained so few full stops that the most long- 
winded compositor might well hesitate to “ set it up.” 

And thus, for the last time, did the honest farmer associate* 
with the secret robber. 

♦ **♦♦♦*♦ 

“ Mary, why are you so low-spirited of late ?” asked Tilly, 
on the same afternoon. 

“ Am I?” Mary returned ; but she knew she was. 

“ Yes. I have not seen you smile since your illness ; and 
in your sleep — ” 

“ What?” 

“In your sleep you moan and talk of horrid things." 

“ Of horrid things ? What horrid things ?” 

“Of murders, of robberies, of treachery, of false love — " 

“ Oh, no 1” 

“ But you do.” 

“ I was not aware of it, then.” 

“ How should you be aware of it ? for when f)ne talks In 


THE SPY-GLASS. 


SI 


one’s sleep, one is seldom awake, and, therefore^ do n't 
know it.” 

Mary was silent. 

“ Is it your illness that has left you so desponding ? -f so, 
cheer up. The delightful sunshine and pure air of these 
spring days should, indeed, not only cure the ills of the 
body, but should also arouse to active life the sinking spirits 
If you have anything on your mind, tell it to me, and — ” 

“I have not, though — nothing particular.” 

“ Then what is the cause of your depression of spirits ? 
Do you love Philip, and is your love not returned ? It can- 
not be that ; for I know he loves you dearly ; I can see it in 
his every act ; in every word he speaks to you, and in every 
look he gives you.” 

“ Oh, no doubt he does — I am sure he does ! I — I — am 
flure of it I” 

“ And surely he has recovered from his accident. You 
need have no fear for his welfare.” 

“ I know that.” 

“ Then why are you so sad ? There must be some cause 
for it.” 

“ I did not know I was,” Mary replied ; but her very tone 
conflicted with her words. 

“ How can you help knowing it? You have not smiled — 
scarcely spoken — since the night of the sleigh-ride — ” 

“ Oh, that terrible night!” Mary shuddered. 

“ No, you have not once spoken save when spoken to. Your 
late manner so contrasts with your usual cheerfulness, that any 
one could not help noticing it. I have noticed it all the time; 
Aunt Eliza has remarked it; and — and — even father,” con- 
cluded Tilly, who regarded the latter fact as little les^ than a 
prodigy. 

It must be because I have been so ill.” 

“Then you should try to cheer up. You are certainly 
almost well now. You should walk out in the fields, and 
woods, and mountains, and take plenty of exercise this 


S16 


THE WHITE BOCKS. 


deligttfal weather. Cornel The sun is yet several hours 
high — ^let us take a ramble somewhere. Will you go?’' 

“I don’t care,” Mary replied, mechanically. 

“ Suppose we go up to the White Eocks, suggested Tiily. 
We can take your telescope with us, and have a view of the 
delightful country. Do you feel like walking so far?” 

** Oh, yes!” 

** Then, shall I tell Aunt Eliza that we are going?” 

“ Yes, if you like.” Mary was passive, rather than concur- 
rent. 

Finding Aunt Eliza, Tilly somewhat astonished her, by 
informing her that Mary and herself were about to take a 
walk. 

“Is it possible?” she exclaimed. “I am glad Mary is 
reviving.” 

“ I do not know that she is. I have almost forced her to 
consent to a walk to the W^’hite Eocks.” 

“ What can be the matter with her, of late?” queried Aunt 
Eliza. 

“ I cannot imagine. I will urge her to confide in me while 
we are walking.” 

“ Do so. If she has anything on her mind, it would cer- 
tainly relieve her to disclose it to some one.” 

Tilly returned to Mary, whom she found still sitting ab- 
stractedly, as she left her. 

“ Are you ready ?” Tilly asked. 

“ Yes,” was the brief reply. 

“But where is your bonnet?” 

“Oh, sure enough!” 

Mary arose languidly, took up her bonnet, and, accompanied 
by Tilly, walked out, carrying it dangling by the strings. 

“Why do you not put your bonnet on?” queried Tilly. 

Mary placed it upon her head. 

“ It is a lovely afternoon,” observed Tilly, as they walked 
dovf'u the path. 


THE SEY-GLAS3. 


817 


“ Yes, delightful. Oh, heautiful !” Mary returned ; but still 
with a strange, absent manner. 

“ How pretty those clouds look Tilly went on, wishing to 
enlist Mary’s interest in the surrounding beauties, and draw 
her attention for awhile from the latent sorrow which was 
manifestly preying upon her mind. 

‘‘Oh, they are pretty!” Mary returned, with a sudden 
enthusiasm that was almost child-like. “ They make me think 
that heaven itself cannot be far away 1” 

They were beautiful. They were some fleecy clouds that 
were quietly bathing in the gentle floods of light which the 
declining sun exhaled. In places they were dark, or rather 
shadowy ; while here and there they were so thin, that the 
sunlight, struggling through, painted bright, silvery spots 
upon them. Their edges, too, floating as ’twere upon the 
very surface of the sunshine, took such softly radiant hues, 
that they might be appropriately compared to the spotless 
fleeces of lambs to which happy spirits have been likened. 

Mary and her cousin had unconsciously stopped at the gate, 
and they stood there for a few minutes, wrapped up in the 
transient loveliness of the evening sky. 

“I would like to go up there,” said Mary, who was rather 
lost than wrapped up in the gentle clouds: and, in the con- 
templation of such an apparently celestial visit, she forgot the 
projected stroll upon the mountain, till her truant mind waa 
recalled by her cousin. 

“ Let us walk on, Mary.” 

Reluctantly Mary withdrew her eyes from the beautiful 
object, and turned, with her cousin, toward the mountain. 
The tall hills, with their old rocks and tangled foliage, looked 
almost dull now ; so surpassingly beautiful the picture she had 
just ^azed upon — that inimitable picture, with its ground- 
work of soft blue. 

They were soon ascending the uneven path: and in the 
deep shades which the thick trees strewed along the way, 
Mary even grew more silent and depressed. 


818 


THE WHITE EOCES. 


** Mary,” said Tilly, any burden sits more easily upon tW6 
than upon one.” 

Mary remained silent. 

“ And a harrowing secret, of all other burdens,” continued 
Tilly. 

Mary did not reply, but walked slowly on, with downcast 
eyes. 

“ Now, Mary,” her cousin went on, tell me what you have 
on your mind that so saddens you ? for, that you have some- 
thing, I am sure.” 

“Oh! do not question me now: I will soon be better, I 
know.” 

“ And do you promise to tell me soon what has cast such a 
gloom over you ?” 

“ Yes, ere long you shall know it.” 

They walked slowly and quietly up the mountain path, and 
when they were nearly half-way to the White Kocks, sat down 
upon a smooth, bench-like rock, to rest. 

“ Oh !” exclaimed Tilly, abruptly, “ what do you think?” 

Almost a faint smile was visible on Mary’s lips, as she 
replied, in substance, that she didn’t know w^hat to think; 
but it soon disappeared — that ghost of a smile — and the 
closed mouth resumed the old expression of quiet sadness. 

“Why, we forgot the telescope!” Tilly exclaimed. 

“ Did we ?” 

“ Yes ; unless yon have brought it. Have you?” 

Mary had not brought it. 

“ Shall I go back after it?” asked Tilly. 

“ Oh ! never mind.” 

“ But I should so much like that we should have it with 
ns,” persisted Tilly. “ Would you be afraid to remain here 
till I go back and get it?” 

“No, I would not be afraid,” 

“ Then I will go. I will be back in half-an-hour, or three- 
quarters.” 

“Very well.” 


THE SPY-GLASS. 


819 


Tilly went tripping gayly down tlie mountain path. In- 
Btinctively, as it were, the eyes of Mary followed her cousin, 
till her form descended deep among the jutting rocks and wild 
shrubbery, and was lost to view; then Mary was alone — alone. 
She had looked, for the last time, upon the yet sprightly 
figure of her cousin. When, after the dinner hour at the 
farm-house that day, she had watched the rough form of her 
honest uncle, moving out into ^the fields, to resume the usual 
labors, she had seen him for the last time upon the earth. 
When, on leaving the farm-house half-an-hour ago, in com- 
pany with her cousin, she had seen her father’s sister (who 
had come to the door to see them off) — good old Aunt Eliza, 
who, whatever her peculiarities, had never been other than 
kind to her — she had seen her to see her no more in the mate' 
rial world. She had left the old farm-house, too — which she 
had grown to love as a home, and where she had spent some 
quiet, happy days — she had left it to return not again. On the 
night of the April sleighing-party, she had heard the songs, 
the witty remarks and keen retorts, the jests, the laughter 
and merriment of assembled youth, for the last time I 

Quietly she sat upon the rustic seat, among the wilds of 
the mountain, waiting her cousin’s return ; — still calm and 
motionless, as if instinctively reconciled to the fate which 
she little imagined awaited her now. Deeper and deeper she 
sunk into mental gloom that far surpassed mere sadness : and 
yet she could not have wept, though w^orlds had rewarded 
every tear I Languid both in mind and body, oblivious to all 
around her, she might have sat in listless reverie till the cur- 
tains of night had fallen upon the mountain, and the dark 
shades gathered about her, had no one come near. She did 
not tremble : her nerves seemed sluggish, as it were . her mind 
itself was quiet — unnaturally quiet — but sunk in such a 
strange gloom. 

She noted not the time as it went by— she seemed to have 
passed prematurely beyond the pale within which time is 
measured — and it might have been, for all she knew, a dozen 


820 


THE WHITE ROCKSo 


minutes or as many hours after Tilly left her to go for the 
telescope, when the sound of a footstep coming up the path 
broke the solitude of the place— a footstep that was not her 

cousin's. 


OHAPTEK XXXIV. 

THAT CRISIS. 

When Tilly returned to the farm-house, she found in the 
iitting-room Philip Kirke and (oh, what a leap her heart 
gave !) Ned Stanton. They had just arrived, had been coldly, 
but politely received by Aunt Eliza, and had not yet inquired 
after the “young ladies.” When Tilly entered, Aunt Eliza, 
feeling that her presence was not absolutely indispensable, 
and that she would, moreover, be happier and more at ease 
anywhere else than in the presence of men, withdrew — not 
even taking time to ask Tilly why she had returned, and 
where she had left Mary. 

“ How do you do, Tilly ?” said Philip, arising, and shaking 
her hand cordially. 

“ Right well, thank you. You look well.” . 

“I am quite well,” Philip rejoinM. 

“I am glad,” said Ned, “to see you looking so well — 
day.” And he took her hand, and gave it just the ghost of 
a squeeze. 

Tilly blushed, and hoped that Ned was quite well; and he 
assured her that he had not felt so well as now for many 
years. Tilly was delighted to hear this, for if the health of 
Ned (who had scarcely ever seen other than the best ol 
health) was better now than usual, it must be prodigious. 


THAT CRISIS. 


821 


Where is Mary?” Philip could not help asking — casually, 
to be sure. 

“Oh?” laughed Tilly, “I thought you would inquire for 
her soon ! Now could you guess where she is?” 

Upon his word, Philip could not. 

“ She is sitting alone on a big rock, about a mile up the 
mountain,” said Tilly. 

“What—* what is she doing there?” 

“ Why she and I started for a visit to the White Rocks, 
with a view to taking a survey of the country ; and when we 
had traveled half the distance we discovered that we had for- 
gotten the telescope — that one you gave her, you know — and 
I induced her to remain there till I should come back and get 
it.” 

“ And ia that what brought you back ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“Then give it to me, and I will take it up to her. • I ca^ 
get there sooner than you.” 

“ I will.” 

Tilly withdrew, and in a few minutes returned with the 
article. 

“ I will go up at once,” said Philip, “ taking the telescope 
and rising. “ Will you two go along now, or come at youx 
leisure ?” 

Ned looked at Tilly. 

Tilly looked at Ned. 

“Why,” returned Ned, “as I feel — well, not just to say 
tired — but then — a little — ” 

“Very well,” interrupted Philip, “as Mary is alone, I will 
hasten up. You will come in a little while, I suppose.” 

“ Ye — yes.” 

“ I hope your society will cheer Mary’s dull spirits,” ob- 
served Tilly, as Philip was about to depart. “She has been 
rather gloomy to-day.” 

“ Has she ?” 

“Yes, a little that way.” 

21 


822 


THE WHITE EOCES. 


— I — wonder,” said Philip, “ what might De the cause; 
can you imagine ?” 

“ No ; though I rather think she is not rightly recovered 
from her illness yet. To-day, for the first time since you 
Loth got hurt that night, I induced her to walk out. I think 
she will revive speedily after this.” 

“ I hope so,” returned Philip, as he strode toward the 
gate, leaving Ned and Tilly alone. 

‘‘Shall we walk up the mountain at once?” asked Ned. 
“ Though,” he added, “ I suppose you feel a little tired, 
and — 

“ I do not care about going now,” Tilly returned, “ unless 
you really wish it.” 

“ Oh, I do not wish it,” Ned replied. “ I suppose there is 
plenty of time ; we can go in a quarter of an hour or so.” 

“Well.” 

“Or, indeed,” Ned continued, “if we don’t go at all we 
will just feel as well ; and they will be safe without us, unless 
you really wish to visit the White Rocks; in that case — ” 

“ Oh, I do not care about going at all,” interrupted Tilly. 
“ I only started for the purpose of getting Mary to go and 
take a little exercise, which she stands in need of. Now, 
Philip has gone up, and he is all the company she wants. 
But, then, perhaps you really feel like taking a little walk, 
and — ” 

“Oh, no; not at all!” put in Ned. “Indeed, although I 
rode to-day, I feel as tired as though I had walked. Because, 
you see, I rode slowly, so that Phil might keep up with me — 
he walked, and I fell in with him about three miles back — 
and I was thus as long sitting on my horse as I would have 
been walking the same distance ; and it is very tiresome work 
to sit in a saddle for an hour or two, and keep drawing the 
rein with all one’s strength to keep one’s horse from going 
too fast ; for my horse is such a goer that his slowest gait, 
if let alone, amounts to a brisk trot of a mile r-zery three or 


THAT CRISIS. 


823 


four minutes. Then, besides — would you please be so kind 
as to get me a drink of water ?” 

“ Oh, certainly!” And Tilly fairly sprang from the room 
to procure the “ Adam’s ale ” requisite to quench her lover’s 
seeming thirst. 

“ Now for it,” muttered Ned, in a low tone, that had a de- 
cidedly theatrical ring ; and, glancing hastily about, to assure 
himself that no mortal eye noted his actions, he drew from 
his side coat-pocket an article which he held to his lips with 
singular tenacity for — well, say eighteen seconds; after which 
he returned it to his pocket. 

Without making a mystery of this incident, we will merely 
state that the article. was a hall-pint flask, whose contents 
were half-a-pirit of '' the best,” It was full when he raised 
it to his mouth — empty when he restored it to his pocket* 
It way be as well to state, too, that the sending for the water 
was an elaborate finevsse, resorted to by Ned in order that he 
might be left alone with the precious stuff for a moment. 
He had brought it with him on purpose to rierve him for a 
particular trial, intending to take” it on approaching the 
house; but his happening. to fall in with Philip had “knocked 
that arrangement higher than a kite,” 

“ That,’’ he murmured, after returning the empty flask to 
his pocket, “ that will steady my nerves for the work before 
me. Oh, heart, be flint 1 be steel ! be ice 1 — so far from soft- 
ening! so far from faltering! so far from warming ! Let no 
artful smile turn thee from thy purpose 1 Let thy motto be, 
‘ Eemember Dick!’ Dost dread towring her heart? ‘Re- 
member Dick !’ She wrung his heart and smiled ! Shall I, 
then, shrink from the stern duty of inflicting upon her the 
same punishment which she wilfully and causelessly inflicted 
cn my friend? No ! not while reason holds her seat in this 
head of mine, and while I have recollection, to — ‘ Remember 
Dick!’ But, hark! there comes the water.” 

** I went clear to the spring for it,” said Tilly, entering 


824 


THE WHITE HOCKS. 


with a fin cnp full of the delicious bevevage, ** in order to 
get Jt cool.’' 

“ Thank you.'’ And Ned took the cup from her hand — it 
held a little over a pint — and drank all the water with appa- 
rent relish ; and that was something he did not often do. 

“Have some more?” [There is no doubt that this very 
question was asked by the first person who ever gave another 
a drink of water, and it has been repeated on every like occa- 
sion down to the present day.] 

“ Have some more ?” 

Ned shuddered as he replied, “ No, thank you I Oh, no I’* 

“It’s no trouble at all ; if you like — ” 

*• Oh, no ! Thank you I I do not wish any more, really !” 
Ned replied, startled at the very thought of drinking any 
more water, 

Tilly returned to the kitchen to replace the cup, while Ned 
muttered, in a tone of self-reproach: 

“ She is very kind, too.” 

“ It is quite pleasant to-day,” observed Tilly, returning to 
the sitting room. 

“ Yes, very. It is very pleasant. It is, indeed, quite plea- 
sant,” returned Ned, for the first time in his life resorting to 
repetition for want of words. 

Tilly said, “It is so.” Then neither spoke for nearly hatf 
a minute, when Ned asked (by the way, merely) where waa 
Aunt Eliza? He had not seen her since he came in. Noth- 
ing could have happened' her ; she could not have fallen in 
the spring, or — 

“Oh, no!” returned’ Tilly, setting his fears aside. “She 
is at the dairy, busy at work of some kind. Aunt is never 
satisfied unless at work, setting things to rights, or something 
or other.” 

“ I know she is very industrious.” 

“ She certainly is.” 

“ So is your father. Now, I ’ll venture he Is out in the 
field, working away — ” 


THAT CEISIS. 


325 


*• Yes, he is busy in one of the cornfields.” 

** I suppose so,” rejoined Ned. “I just finished planting 
fny corn last Saturday.” 

Father is nearly done, too. He will finish this week.” 

•^He has done well.” 

Tes, he has had some help until the latter part of last 
week, when he concluded he could easily finish the work 
himself.” 

‘‘ Ke ’s a vigorous man for his age.” 

•-Yes.” 

A silence now ensued, lasting all of a quarter of a minute ; 
when Ned somewhat astonished Tilly by observing, at this 
late junciare, that he hoped she had been quite well since he 
had last seen her. 

“Yes; oh, yes. Quite well,” returned Tilly. “Why, I 
do not — ” she continued, half alarmed at the thought — “ I do 
not look — ” 

“Oh, no; you do not look — ” Ned was really scarce of 
words. 

A little further conversation ensued ; and, by and by, the 
contents of that flask began to crawl up into his head, and 
especially to take refuge in his tongue — and Ned was himself 
again. 

“ Yes, the fact is,” said Ned, the conversation having spon* 
taneously turned upon himself, “ the fact is, I was just pre- 
cisely tAventy-six years old last Thursday morning, at twenty- 
one minutes past eight, and it strikes me I am growing 
old—” 

“ Oh, no.” 

“ — And as I look back, through the long list of interven- 
ing years, to the time when I was a boy — when we were 
children together — ” 

Tilly sighed, audibly. 

” — As I look back to that time, I cannot help thinking 
how I have thrown aw’ay the precious hours, and how worth- 
less I am — •” 


326 


THE WHITE K0CK3. 


Uh, no.” 

'•* — to what I might have been ; and I wish I had either 
the time to live over, or that I had never been born — ” 

** Oh, no,” interrupted Tilly, visibly affected. 

“ Yes., I have been wild, careless and indolent all my life ; 
but I am determined that henceforth — ” 

Tilly brightened. 

“ I will — no, I will not, either. I cannot — ” 

** Oh, yes you can,” urged Tilly. 

“ No, I cannot abandon my reckless, almost dissipated, 
habits, 

* For as the twig is bent the tree inclines ;* 

and having, in despite of the admonitions of a kind father 
and mother, allowed myself to bend when a twig, I am 
doomed to be a crooked tree till I am cut down, which,” he 
added, growing almost melancholy, “may not be many years, 
or even months, and — ” 

“ Oh, do n’t say that !” 

“ — this life’s miseries and wrong-goings will end.” 

Ned stopped for breath, drew in a whole chest full, then 
relaxed every muscle and allowed it to escape spontaneously 
through his open mouth, which it did with such impetuosity 
that Ills cheeks were puffed out for a moment so prodigiously, 
and oeemed to endure such a strain, that the sensitive Tilly 
halt expected to see at least one of them fly off. They re- 
mained firm, however, and Ned suddenly said— “ Oh, Tilly I” 
and stopped. 

Tilly waited for him to proceed. 

“ Why,” he said, “are you sure your aunt is at the dairy?” 

“Yes; but I ’ll look and see.” 

And she looked and saw. 

‘•And your father is in the field ?” 

Tilly assured him that her father was in the field, and asked 
him if he felt ill, and had she better run dowa for Aiint 
Eliza? or— 

“Oh, nol” 


THAT CRISTS. 


827 


Or for Ira ? 

“ Oh, no!” 

Or get him a drink of water ? 

“Oh, no!” he almost screamed. “I am not well — slok, I 
mean ; I am very well — very, I am very well, Tilly. Oh, 
unusually well. I feel, in fact, very wfell.” 

“ I feared you were growing suddenly ill,” said Tilly, 
•* and no one in the house ; no assistance — ” 

“ Oh, not at all !” 

“I am so much relieved T* 

Ned was n’t. 

“Tilly,” he said, presently. 

Tilly asked him, “What?” 

“I am one of the most miserable of men!” he said, with 
Borne feeling. 

She was very sorry to hear him say so; but hoped he 
was n’t, indeed. 

“Yes I am!” he persisted. “ Oh, that I might have died 
when — when — ’* He could n’t say when. 

Tilly replied that she would have been very sorry ; oh, so 
Borry ! if he had died when — 

“ Oh, Tilly ! you do not know — ” 

Tilly did not say whether she did or not ; but she rather 
thought she did, 

“ I am a miserable, wretched, ugly — ” 

“ Oh, no !” 

“ — being ! No one cares for me, and — ” 

“ Oh, yes !” 

“ — I feel alone in the world. I feel that I am no longer 
fit to live — ” 

Oh, but he was, though. 

“ — and that a watery grave — ” 

“ Oh, do not !*’ 

And he did not. 

All of three minutes elapsed, during which both were 
silent. Ned did not speak, and Tilly could not. There they 


S23 


THE WHITE EOCES. 


Bat, now and tlien stealing awkward glances at each other. 
At length Ned whispered to himself, “ The time is come !’' 
and immediately made a spring toward Tilly, who sat across 
the room from him, and who at once jumped to the concl:i- 
sion that he was mad, or very much in love. Throwing him- 
self wildly at her feet, with such force that the whole house 
trembled, he seized one of her hands, kissed it with apparent 
fervor twelve or thirteen times ; then, in a style, in a tone, 
in words, and in a generally-impressive manner, for all oi 
which many a true lover would give worlds at the trying 
moment, he unbosomed his woes. 

“Tilly! Tilly!” he exclaimed. “Angel! Bright spirit! 
Sun of my day ! star of my night ! light of my existence ! 
Noblest, purest, loveliest, holiest of beings! Ornament of 
your sex ! I love you ! I love you to madness ! I adore 
you ! I worship you ! The ground on which you walk is 
Banctified in my eyes ! The air you breathe is to me as a 
whisper from the happy world ! I reverence the house yon 
live in ! I bow to the hills and mountains that afford you a 
rambling-place ! And to yourself — I am not even worthy to 
fall on my face! But here, on my bended knee, I beg you 
to forgive me for having even dared to tell you of my love ! 
I know I can ask no more than that ! I know T cannot ask 
you to be mine! You are too g^od, too pure, too lovely, for 
me to dare to hope that you would ever mar your shining 
life by uniting with such a wretch — such a worthless wretch 
as I ! Forgive me ! Oh, forgive me ! Farewell ! farewell ! 
May you be happy forever! Farewell! The world to me is 
darkness now ! Soon the calm waters of the Monongahela 
shall cover up and hide alike my sins and sorrows! Fare- 
well I Oh, farewell !” And leaving Tilly amazed beyond 
expression, he sprang up like mad, seized his hat, made such 
a rush for the door as a frightened cat might make, leaped 
out up'^n the lawn, and came in terrific contact with a strong 
man Wno was just approaching the door; and both fell head- 
long to the ground, and rolled over and over upon the grasa. 


THE SHADOW, 


S29 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE SHADOW. 

The reader will remember that on the evening of Ned 
Stanton’s terrible affright in the graveyard, Philip Kirke, 
who chanced to be passing, and who did not comprehend the 
affair at all, crouched, on the impulse of a guilty conscience 
among the bushes at the road-side — preceded, however, by 
another, who had chanced that way but a few seconds in 
advance of him. That mysterious figure was no other than 
George Roland. George heard the terrified exclamation of 
Philip, which was, in substance, a spontaneous query, ad- 
dressed to no one in particular (save his conscience, perhaps), 
calling for information as to whether the apparition in the 
churchyard was the ghost of Henry White come back to judge 
him, — and having heard this singular ejaculation, he could 
not easily dismiss it from his mind. 

Why should the ghost of Henry White return to this world 
to judge Philip Kirke? George asked himself. Had Philip 
ever wronged him in their dealings? Scarcely probable, 
George thought; for had Philip ever wronged him to such 
an extent as to render it probable that his ghost should return 
to set it right, it would have been known in the settlement 
long ere this. Besides, George had never heard any one 
speak of Philip Kirke as a man of business, save to say that 
he was honest and upright. Certain it was that he could 
never have cheated Henry White to any great extent without 
tne knowledge of the latter, who, though straight-forward 
and honest, was always a thorough business man. What, 
then, could be the import of these strange words? The 
ghost of Henry White come back to judge Philip Kirke? 


330 


THE WHITE EOCKS. 


Why. no one, at that time, was yet quite sure that he was 
dead! Ha! Who murdered Henry White? Where was 
Philip Kirke at the time? Had he not suddenly left the 
village only a few days before Henry White was expected to 
return from Pittsburg? and had he not remained away for 
several months? Was he not probably aware that Henry 
White expected to carry a sum of money with him from 
Pittsburg? Could it be possible that Philip had waylaid and 
murdered him? Philip was a comparative stranger in the 
settlement: who knew anything of his real character ? And 
yet — oh, no! he had never liked Philip Kirke, but he could 
not believe that he was a murderer ! — that he was the mur- 
derer of Mary’s father, and he her lover ! Still he deter- 
mined to w'atch him till he should either find more ground 
for suspicion^ or see something to dispel that he had already 
conceived. 

So, George returned to his home without visiting the 
village; and thenceforth he was continually pondering on 
what he had heard ; now. coming to the conclusion that the 
idea of Philip’s being guilty of such a crime was positively 
ridiculous; then again falling into a maze over the words he 
had heard him utter, and remaining for awhile almost con- 
vinced that they were inexplicable, save on the ground that 
Philip had, at least, been a party to the murder of Henry 
White. 

Several days elapsed before a thought of Philip’s possible 
complicity with the robbers of the vicinity occurred to George j 
then it did occur — and with a vengeance. At first, the re- 
collection that he was the first man robbed by the mystei-fous 
banditti, almost set the idea aside; but then another tlmught 
occurred to him which increased his suspicions ten-fold. It 
was this: How remarkable that Philip should chance to be 
the first man robbed ! Might not tb.s have been a concerted 
thing, intended to avert suspicion from him at the very start? 
How remarkable, too, that the robbei's made their appeara!)ce 
BO nearly the time of his’ arrival at Weston ! Did not this 


THE SHADOW. 


831 


lock a* though he might have established himself at the 
village to act in concert with the other robbers? Might he 
not hold intercourse with them almost every day? 

Another thing : Several times had persons of the settle- 
ment been waylaid and robbed while in company with Philip, 
and always when both were supposed to have considerable 
money about them ! And how remarkable that on such occa- 
sions he was generally felled to the ground, almost senseless, 
and yet always escaped with but slight apparent injury, while 
his companion usi^ally caught such a blow as almost to en- 
danger his life ! 

These and other sinspicious circumstances increased George’s 
mistrust of his rival, until it almost amounted to conviction. 
He durst not mention his suspicions to any one, even had he 
desired ; for in that event he w^uld have been hooted for 
entertaining such an absurd thought, and held up to public 
ridicule, so thoroughly satisfied was every one of Kirke’a 
uncompromising integrity. Besides, to have made his suspi- 
cions patent, would have put Philip on his guard, or perhaps 
induced him to make his escape. No matter: George did 
not wish to confide to any one what was on his mind. He 
resolved to watch his rival secretly thenceforth, until able to 
produce most incontrovertible evidence of his criminality. 

On the very day Philip visited the rendezvous of the rob- 
bers to plot with them for the murder of John Duffey and 
his own hated enemy, as they should return from the race at 
New Market, George chanced to visit the house of Daniel 
Patton, on some trivial business: and, returning, was walk- 
ing slowly by the wood through which lay the desultory way 
1o the cave, when he saw Philip Kirke coming through the 
Avood from the direction of the river. He was walking rather 
swiftly, and with a step in which it was not difficult to detect 
a certain amount of stealth. The road lay along the margin 
of the wood, and there was no fence between them. George 
immediately sprang into the midst of a thick clump of bushes, 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


r>32 

convinced tli^t Philip had not observed him, and quietly 
noted the movements of the latter. 

On reaching the road, he cast uneasy glances in both direc* 
tions, and even into the field beyond, after which, apparently 
satisfied that the coast was clear, he walked swiftly towaro 
Weston. George remained in his place of concealment till 
he had disappeared in the distance; and then, convinced by 
what he had seen of him, that he had come from Weston on 
Borne evil errand, he resolved to scour the woods in the hope 
of finding some trace of the robbers, with whom he had very 
little doubt his rival held intercourse. So, he searched the 
woods from the road to the river, and some distance on the 
right and left, keeping himself concealed as much as possible, 
and at times even crawling among the bushes, but all in vain ; 
he found no mark of the presence of a human being. A 
squirrel crossed his path now and then, and occasionally a 
frightened rabbit started up from its nest and ran away : but 
nothing else disturbed the solitude of the forest. At last he 
gave up the search, and returned home, convinced that if 
Philip had came out to communicate with the robbers, their 
lurking-place must be beyond the river, and signals had been 
used — or, perhaps, a boat, which they might have in their 
possession. 

Even now, it would occasionally occur to George that he 
was “ making a fool of himself,” to use his own expression — 
that his suspicions were too absurd to be thought of ; and he 
even went so far as to fear that his' mind was a little deranged, 
in consequence of having received, from one he so much loved» 
a certain homely covering for the hand. He even wondered 
in case there were grounds for his fears regarding his mind, 
what length of time would elapse ere he should become a 
raving madman and be sent to the lunatic asylum ; and 
whether in that case, his mental derangement w'ould be pro- 
nounced incurable. Altogether, when he reached home, he 
found himself rather deeper in a maze, regarding the all- 


THE SHADOW. 


83S 


al:)f= orbing q'iiestion wtiioli had taken possession of his mind, 
than ever before. 

On the following night, when George saw Philip shoot the 
robber, whom they had captured and brought tc Weston, — • 
the unfortunate Buster, — he was undecided whether to regard 
that fact as new grounds for suspicion, or as a total dispeller 
of all he had ever entertained. But when the pocket-knife, 
marked P. Kirke, was found upon the person of the dead 
robber, he would have staked his life on his convictions— 
which remained thenceforth unmoved. He could easily see 
why he had shot the robber ; for was not the latter on the 
point of disclosing who his associates were, and where they 
stayed, when shot down ! 

After this, George frequently hung upon Philip’s tracks for 
a whole day at a time ; but as the latter did not visit the 
cave more than once or twice during the whole winter, he 
made no new discoveries. 

Thus matters went on till the twelfth day of May, just tw'o 
years after the death of Henry White. On Jhat day, George 
again started to visit the house of Daniel Patton, on some 
matter of business ; and, as he usually did when the weather 
was pleasant and he had but a few miles to go, went a-foot. 
Walking rather swiftly, he had arrived within a mile of his 
destination, when he descried, a few hundred yards in ad- 
vance of him, another traveler — a pedestrian like himself — 
walking at a moderate pace in the same direction. The man 
did not look round, and George was hastening to overtake 
him in order to have company during the remainder of his 
way, when he suddenly conceived the idea that the gentle- 
man ahead was no other than Philip Kirke. This thought 
no sooner occurred to him than he sprang into the woods on 
his left, and followed cautiously, stepping quickly from ono 
bush or tree on to another, in order that the traveler, in case 
of his looking behind, should not s?e him. At length the 
traveler stopped, turned about, scanned /he road he had just 
passed over, then looked ahead, then into the woods, thca 


834 


THE WHITE HOCKS. 


into the fields; and finally, no doubt satisfied that he was no^ 
observed, plunged into the depths of the woods, and hurried 
toward the river. George fully recognized him : it was 
Fhilip Kirke, 

“At last! At last!” he exclaimed; and, striking diago- 
nally through the woods, he followed Philip, keeping him 
constantly in view, till the latter reached the bluff overlook- 
ing the river, and disappeared over the verge. 

Hastening onward, though still with caution, George was 
soon at the brink himself, and at the very spot where he had 
seen Kirke descend. He peeped cautiously over, but could 
see no one. Fearing that he might be observed, he crouched 
among some bushes that grew in clumps along the edge of 
the bluff; and there remained for a full half-hour, carefully 
scanning the vicinity, and especially the river, across which 
he half expected to see a boat glide, with Philip as a passen- 
ger. He was afraid to move, lest the home of the robbers — 
he did not doubt now that the object of Philip’s errand there 
was to see them-^might be down among the rocks within a 
few feet of him, and they should see or hear him. At last, 
however, he caught the sound of voices, and, looking down 
he saw Kirke emerge, like a very serpent, from some obvious 
aperture in the side of the bluff, and ‘stand upon a narrow 
shelving rock. Immediately four other ruffianly-looking fel- 
lows followed ; and after a few words of parting, which George 
could not make out, Philip began to ascend. George arose, 
and sprang away like a deer, soon reaching some thick 
Bumac bushes, fifty paces distant, which afforded a most 
excellent hiding-place. Here he concealed himfself, to take 
note of the villain’s further movements. He had not been 
there long ere a head and pair of shoulders appeared above 
the top of the bluff, where they remained for a moment; then 
the whole form followed ; and Philip Kirke, apparently not 
quite at ease, though certainly not dreaming of the eye that 
was upon him, stalked away toward the distant road, and 
was soon lost to view among the intricacies of the woods. 


THE SHADOW. 


835 


When satisfied that he had passed beyond sight, George 
again drew near the verge of*the bluff, and peeped cautiously 
over. No one was to be seen, Bill and his companions hav- 
ing re-entered the cave. He recognized the shelving rock, 
however, on which he had seen the outlaws stand, and he 
resolved to make his way to it, confident that, among tha 
vines that hung profusely about, there was an orifice in the 
side of the blufiP, leading to a cavern. It was impossible for him 
to determine whether that cave was a deep one, or not. It 
might wind its way into the hill half-a-mile, or so ; or, it might 
only be of the dimensions of an ordinary house. In the latter 
case, he felt that it would be incumbent upon him to proceed 
as noiselessly as possible, which he accordingly did. As he 
descended to within a few feet of the shelf, he distinctly heard 
the sound of voices coming from the den, and he fully realized 
how perilous his situation was. Moving carefully to the left, 
then descending a little way, he reached a point where the 
shelf terminated among some thick vines and bushes that 
clung to the side of the blufif. Here the descent was very 
steep, and, but for a jutting rock that barely afforded him 
a seat, and the ample bushes to which he could cling, he 
could not long have maintained his position. He now heard 
the voices within the cave more distinctly dhan before, yet 
could not distinguish a word that was said. He soon heard 
enough, though, to convince him that the robbers were drink- 
ing, if not carousing ; for he several times heard harsh bursts 
of half-suppressed laughter, and now and then the rattle of a 
tin cup. He could not still see the mouth of the cave, the 
vines so completely concealed it ; but he was able to judge 
pretty nearly where it was located : and he was just discuss- 
ing with himself the probable amount of risk he should incur 
by crawling along the shelf to the opening, when the vines 
were thrust aside, rather nearer to him than he had supposed 
the mouth of the cave to be, and the four ruffians came out, 
one by one, and seated themselves upon the shelf. Georg® 
came near uttering an exelamation of surprise, as he suddenly 


S36 


THE WHITE EOCHS. 


rt?cognized in one of them the very robber who had been 
twenty months previously, carried captive to Weston, by 
Dafley and Hempstead, and who had escaped from his place 
of confinement in Tony’s house. He was not long, either, in 
making out a decided family resemblance between another of 
the outlaws (Buster) and the robber whom Philip Kirke had 
shot in Weston, the previous autumn. His whole attention, 
however, was soon absorbed in their conversation. He was 
within a very few yards of them, and could hear every word, 
although he had so drawn the foliage about him, when they 
emerged from the cave, that it was next to impossible they 
could discover his presence, so long as he should remain quiet. 
It was evident they had been drinking while Philip was with 
them, and that they were now “keeping it up;” for their 
faces were flushed, their eyes heavy and dull, their tongues 
thick, and their language broken. For a little while he could 
make nothing out of what they said ; but finally one who had 
lain down, and was apparently half-asleep, made some remark 
about the mildness of the weather. 

“ Yes,” said Bill, “ the cap’n ’ll have a nice day for his 
weddiiV, to-morrer.” 

One of the others laughed outright; he could n’t help it. 

“ What’r yer laughin’ at?” queried Bill, with an oath. 

“Oh, it’s sich a darned high move!” returned the other, 
and laughed more. 

“ Whas a darn high move?” asked Bill. 

“ This weddin’ biz’ness,” replied the other. “ The idea o* 
the cap’n a-morryin’ what ’s-his-namey’s dotter — ” 

“Ole Whitey’s?” suggested Bill. 

“ Yes — after him a-helpin’ to smash ole Whitey’s head, an 
a-helpin’ to git his money, an’ a-helpin’ to shove him under 
the ground— the idea of him a-takin’ an’ morryin’ the same 
feller’s dotter — oh, it’s enough to bu’st a feller with thinkin* 
on !” And he laughed till there was apparent danger of hit 
ij^^^ing. 

“ Well, what o’ that?” asked Bill. 


THE SHADOW. 


837 


** Nothin* — only the idea — an’ precisely two year after — ’* 

“An’ a day,” put in Bill, correcting him. “It was jis 
to-day two year ago — or to-night, ruther — that ole Whitey 
’spired in this very diggins, an’ the weddin’, you know, ain’t 
to be till tc-morrer. An’,” added Bill, half musingly, “no- 
buddy knows nothin’ of it but their two selves.” 

“An’ us,” put in another. 

“Yes, us; but even us knowed nothin’ of it till to-day. 
Phil never tole us nothin’ of it afore.” 

“ He might a axed us to the weddin’,” suggested one of the 
others, with an injured air. 

“ Oh ! but he’s a-goin’ to have a quiet weddin’ of it ; no- 
cuddy ’s to be there but the — what-ye-call-him — preacher, to 
i\e the knot. He said he was a-goin’ straight to where the 
gal lives, as soon as he left here, so ’s to make all the ’range- 
in ents.” 

“Wonder if we couldn’t all do like the cap’n?” observed 
on^ fho had not yet spoken. “ One at a time, in course — go 
to Weston an’ call ourselves respect’l dealers in grain, an’ put 
up at — at — Bony Bate’s — or what’s-’is-name — the tavern, you 
know — an’ fall in love with purty gals, an’ all that?” ^ 

“ Guess not,” returned Bill. “ We ain’t so good-lookin’ as 
Cap’n Phil — we ain’t.” 

“ So we ain’t, neither,” said the other ; “ an’ I s’pose we ’ll 
have to live an* die ole maids.” 

“You mean bach’lors, you darn fool,” said the illiberal 
Bill. 

“ Sompin’ o’ that sort.** 

George thoug’^t he had heard quite enough now, and 
began to wish that the outlaws would return to the interior 
of the cave, that he might withdraw ; for, to attempt to do so 
while they were there, would be almost certain to lead to his 
discovery ; but they manifested no inclination to change their 
position, and a new topic of conversation was introduced by 
and by. 

“ The cap’n,” said Bill, “ says as he ’ll give us the wery 
22 


838 


THE WHITE BOCKS. 


fust chance to ’tend to them fellers — Duffey an* — what’s th« 
to them’s name?” 

“ Boland,'' responded one of the outlaws. 

“ Yes — Roland. Won’t he be took when he hears of th« 
gal he was after fur hisself a-gittin’ morried to Cap’n Rhil?” 

“Oh, gosh! won’t he?” 

“/ think,” observed Bill, “ we ort to pay off them other’ns, 
too, fur interferin’ that night we ivas at it — them that took 
poor Buster — your brother. Bust.” 

“ Yes, we ort to guzzle the whole crowd. ” 

“Plenty o’ time to ’tend to ’em all, though; they’ll never 
find us hur — an’ we can hant ’em as long as we please.” 

“ An’ we’ll do it.” 

After a little further conversation, which dis3losed some 
alarming secrets to the excited listener, all returned to the 
cave, for the purpose of taking a little additional refreshment, 
in the shape of their favorite beverage. No soouer had the last 
one entered, and adjusted tlie vines carefully before the en- 
trance, than George left his irksome position, and began care- 
fully to ascend the bluff. When he had reached the top, he took 
a careful survey of the vicinity, noting many land-marks, to 
make sure that he could easily find the place again ; then he 
struck off toward the road, as fast as his feet could carry him. 
No matter what obstacle came in his way — a rock, a fallen 
tree, or anything of that sort — he sprang over it like a deer. 
In ten minutes he had reached the road. Here he paused for a 
moment, undecided as to what course it would be best to pur- 
sue. He soon concluded to go straight to the justice of the 
peace — a Mr. Smith — state on oath the startlirig facts wffich 
had come to his knowledge, get a warrant for the arrest of 
Philip Kirke, take it to the constable — a Mr. Jones — and 
accompany the latter at once to Ira Tate’s, whither Philip had 
gone, and assist, if necessary, to arrest him. He hoped that 
much time would not thus be lost, as both magistrate and 
constable resided on the mountain road, between the cross- 
roads and Ira Tate’s home. 


THE SHADOW. 


r>o‘:< 

When he reached the house of the justice, he found him at 
home, and at once deposed to what he had seen, to the utter 
amazement and astonishment of the ‘^squire;’’ who, however, 
‘"issued” the warrant directing the constable to arrest Philip 
Kirke and bring the same before him, the justice of the peace, 
dead or alive, (meaning Philip) ; and authorizing him (the 
constable) to call upon all good citizens to assist in executing 
that warrant. 

George found constable Jones at home, and delivered the 
warrant into his hands; and when the latter had partially 
recovered from his astonishment — a matter of fifteen minutes' 
after having the state of affdrs explained to him — he armed 
himself with two pocket-pistols and an ordinary butcher-knife ; 
and the two set off for Ira Tate’s; George having inferred, 
from the conversation that he had gone directly thither, and 
Mr. Jones himself having seen him pass an hour previously, 
accompanied by Ned Stanton. 

They were not long in reaching Ira Tate’s, and wore walk- 
ing quietly up the path, George in advance, when Ned Stanton, 
came rushing from the door, as described in the preceding 
chapter, coming in collision with George, and upsetting both 
precipitately on the lawn. It was so sudden, that the con-, 
stable had not recognized Ned ; and, very naturally suppos- 
ing him to be Philip Kirke endeavoring to escape, “ reached 
for him,” seized him firmly by the coat collar with his left 
hand, and with his right held the muzzle of a pistol to his 
ear, at the same time exclaiming: 

“Oh, you sneakin’, thievin’, murderin’ highway-robbin’ vil- 
lain ! I ’ve got you at last, have I ?” 

It might be inferred from the last exclamation, that he had 
been looking for him for some time. 

Ned and George were now in the act of rising, when the 
latter recognized the former, and exclaimed : 

“ Why, that ’s Ned Stanton 1” 

*‘So it isl” exclaimed Mr. Jones, releasing Ned, who waa 


340 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


all astonishment. “In another second I’d shot!” And he 
uncocked his pistol. 

“ What the dense are yon about, Ned ?” asked George. 

“What the dense are you about?” returned Ned. 

“ I was just coming to Ira Tate’s,” said George. 

“And I was just leaving,” said Ned. 

“ In a hurry, too. But, say — where is Kirke?” 

“ Gone up to the White Rocks, with Mary.” 

“ How long since ?” 

“ I — I — can’t tell. Half-an-hour, I suppose; or, may be, an 
hour. But why? What’s the matter?” 

“ Ned, come here,” said George. “ Are your nerves strong?” 

“ If they were not they would never have stood the .ahock 
they just received,” Ned returned. 

“I am going to tell you something — and we want your 
assistance, if necessary, to arrest a very devil.” 

“Ha! What?” 

“Ned, now do n’t scream, but listen : Philip Kir let is a 
rohhe)' — a highivayman — a murderer f' 

“ What ? Why — you — as-ton-ish me !” 

“ He is at the head of a party of robbers and murderers 
who have, for some time infested our community : he set them 
to murder John Duffey and myself, last fall : the robber whom 
he shot in Weston was one of his own accomplices, and he shot 
him to prevent his exposing him: and, worst of all, this same 
Kirke was one of the murderers of Henry White /” 

Ned was struck dumb with amazement. 

“ Come,” said George, “ let us go after him ; if he escapes, 
justice is dead !” 

The three hurried from the lawn, and were soon malting 
their way with rapid steps, up the mountain, Ned going on 
foot with the others, leaving his horse standing at the gate. 

Tilly had not distinguished a word of the conversation, hav. 
ing only come to the door in time to see the trio quit the 
lawn. She saw that something was the matter; but her own 
troubles soon recurred to her, and as she remembered that 


TOO LATE. .841 

Ned, on wliom slie had so set her heart, was lost to her, she 
exclaimed, in the anguish of her heart : 

“ My last hope is gone ! I am desolate and alone! And— 
oh, dear me ! — if I do n’t die young I ’ll be an old maid a$ 
long as I live T* 


CHAPTER XXXVr. 

TOO late! 

Were we writing a work of fiction, we should never pen 
this chapter ; but we are not, and the truth must be told. 

Let us witness in imagination the fearful scene which the 
old gray rocks witnessed nearly three-score years ago ; let 
us look upon the appalling picture as the tall cliffs would 
describe it to-day, could they speak. 

We left Mary White in a lonely place on the mountain, 
awaiting the return of her cousin who had gone back to the 
house lor that deplorable glass — left her just as she was startled 
from her reverie by an approaching footstep on the mountain 
path. There let us return to her again. 

Mary lifts her eyes languidly, and they rest on the ap- 
proaching form of — Philip Kirke. He is yet some paces 
distant, and is barely in view ; for he has just turned a sharp 
angle of the crooked path, beyond which the way is con- 
cealed by projecting rocks and tangled foliage. 

“ Oh, Mary 1” he exclaims, drawing hastily near, ** I am so 
glad to find you safe and quiet! Yes, and looking much 
better than when I saw you last week 1 Were you not afraid 
to remain in this wild place alone?” 

No, I was not afraid,” Mary replies, in a calm, melan- 
choly tone. 


o42 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


** Well,” resumes Philip, seating himself beside Mary, and 
imprinting a kiss on her pale cheek, “you need not have 
been afraid, I am sure.” 

“Why?” Mary asks, almost coldly. 

“Because,” replies Philip, “bad as the world is repre- 
eented, I do not believe there is a creature in it — man or 
bea-st — so base and unfeeling as to harm one like you, dear 
Mary.” 

“ Am I better than others ?” she inquires, in a quiet, pas- 
sionless tone. 

“ Better?” responds Philip. “ Yes, better than any other, 
of this world, it seems to me ! Better than any of your sex, 
and a thousand times better than any of mine ! You are not 
like an ordinary woman ! you are not an ordinary woman I” 

“What then?” 

“An angel 1 — or very like one.” 

“ I wish I xoai'e one,” Mary replies, in the same quiet tone. 

“I am glad you are not a real angel,” says Philip, “ if to- 
be one you would have to go from hence. True, you might 
be happier ; but — oh 1 am I selfish ? — the world would be to 
me so dark without you!” 

Mary is silent. To-morrow is her wedding-day, and she is 
thinking of that. Will she, after all, marry her lover with- 
out first putting his character to test, — without first executing 
that simple ruse which she has almost determined to employ^ 
to set her doubts at rest? Doubts? What doubts? Doubts 
of the integrity of her lover? Doubts as to whether he may 
not be a robber ? Doubts as to whether he may not, indeed, 
be the murderer of her father? Oh, they be foolish 

doubts! Why, how lovingly Philip has just spoken ! Can he 
be a murderer ? — and yet so sentimental and eloquent ? Can 
he be the murderer of her own father? — and yet so full of 
manifest love for her ? Oh, no ! That his words of love are 
sincere, his very tone and manner attest ; and were he a mur- 
derer, or anything half so bad, could he sincerely love any one? 
Could it be possible that one could murder an honest old 


TOO LATE. 343 

man, and love liis victim’s daughter? Oh, no! Such thing 
was never heard of ! 

Why, how fearfully she has wronged her noble lover, now 
that she comes to reflect properly on the subject! How she 
has wronged him by entertaining of him so dark a suspicion 1 
—Mary silently muses. Oh, how little he dreams what 
dreadful things she has more than half suspected him of! 
Would he ever — could he ever forgive her, did he know it? 
He might : but could he ever be kappy again if aware that 
she has thus soon regarded him with such fearful distrust? 
No, never ! Oh, she must have misunderstood the words sho 
had heai d him utter in his ravings that terrible night ! Her 
own head must have been a little deranged. Oh, that’s it! 
Why has she not thought of that before? Henceforth, she 
will trust him. She will not dare to think again of what has 
io troubled her mind of late. No, she will confide in him 
'most unreservedly. She will believe that her own ears 
heard falsely, — that her own senses were wandering, — that 
all the world are robbers and murderers, rath^ than him ; 
she will believe any' hing — everything — but ill of him ! — for 
■she loves him. 

Ah, woman’s lo'e! — devoted, steadfast, everlasting! but, 
oh, how blind ! 

“ Mary, you p- e still silent and sad,” observes Philip. 

** I have not >een well you know,” she replies. 

** But you d I recovering?” 

- “ Oh, yes.* 

“Shall V proceed to the White Bocks?— See: I have 
brought th telescope.” 

“Yes, you wish. ” 

“ But do you feel like it?” 

“Yes, — oh, yes!” Mary replies, quickly, as if awaking 
from a dream. 

“If you are too weak — ” 

“Oh, I am not! We will go. Is Tilly not coming?’* 

“ Why, you see, somebody that she thinks a deal of, and 


344 


THE WHITE BOCKS. 


that thinks a deal of her, arrived at the house with me hut a 
moment before she came, and I took the glass and hurried 
up to you, leaving them to come at their leisure.” 

“ Ned, is it?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Probably they vdll not come at all. We may as well 
proceed,” says Mary. 

They arise, and walk slowly up the path. Mary takes the 
arm of Philip, and her confidence in him becomes more and 
more firm as they ascend the mountain. Now and then she 
almost feels like throwing herself at his feet, and begging his 
forgiveness for having so wronged him in her secret thought: 
but she defers that. 

“ Mary,” says Philip, while they walk leisurely up the 
winding path, “to-morrow, you know, is the day we ap- 
pointed for our wedding. If you do not feel sufficiently re- 
covered from your illness, it would be selfish and ungenerous 
of me to — to insist — ” 

“ Oh, you%re good and kind,” Mary interrupts ; “but I am 
much better now; I feel much better since starting from the 
house ; I believe all I wanted was a little exercise. I will 
soon recover my usual health and spirits now.” 

Yes, for without any reason at all, her confidence in her 
lover has more than fully returned, without any reason — save 
that he is her lover. 

“ I am so glad to hear you say so,” he returns. “ I am 
glad to see you growing cheerful again. Why, I may almost 
hope to see you smile next.” 

“ I feel so much better this afternoon, than I have felt lately,” 
Mary responds, “ that I am half inclined to smile.” And 
she does smile faintly. “ I do not know,” she goes on, “ what 
has so revived me, unless it is the mountain air.” 

“ That is just it,” Philip assures her. “ The trouble is, you 
have too long deferred giving it a trial. Away with all 
tloetorg’ medicines 1 The mountain air of May possesses far 


TOO LATE. 


8 45 


more and far superior medical virtues, healing hoth the ilia 
of the body, and the languor of the spirits.’* 

“ I am sure of it,” Mary agrees. 

After to-morrow,” Philip continues, ** we can be often in 
each other’s company, and we may take daily rambles upon 
the mountain, till you are quite welL” 

This is a delightful prospect. Oh, Mary is so sorry that 
she even suffered herself to doubt, for a single moment, the 
pure integrity of her lover! She thinks now that to-morrow 
will be a happy day, after all. And she thinks there are 
many, many happy days before her. Every moment her 
hitherto desponding spirits rise higher and higher, till she is 
getting actually joyous and happy again. 

Conversing pleasantly they reach the White Rocks; and 
stand upon the great wild terrace. 

“ How dark the settlement looks,” Mary remarks, as she 
gazes out upon the wide exp inse. 

“ That,” explains Philip, “is because the sun is low in the 
west. We are looking westward, and therefore see only the 
shady side of all the trees and hills. The other side ia 
bright enough with the glow of the waning sun. Take the 
glass, and see if you can make out anything.” 

Mary takes the telescope, raises it to her eye, and through 
its lenses scans the evening landscape. 

“I see houses, and barns, and gardens, and highways,’* 
she remarks. “ I see the church near Weston, and I see my 
old home. It looks very lonely. I can see the mountain 
road very distinctly, from near Weston, till it hides itself 
under the mountain. Let me see if any one is traveling OQ 
it. Yes, I see several persons. They are coming this way-a^ 
and so slowly, that they seem to be crawling, You look, 
Philip, if you can make out who they are,” And Mary gives 
the glass to her lover. 

Pie raises it to his eye, and brings it to bear on the extenu* 
6^od road. 


SIS 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


“ Where are they?” he asks. “What part of the road?” 

“ About a mile from the mountain.” 

“Oh, yes; I see them now. I cannot make out w^ho thej 
are. They may be travelers going eastward. Well they 
will scarcely cross the mountain to-night.” 

“No, nor in haif-a-dozen nights,” Mary rejoins. And the 
travelers are soon forgotten. 

Ah, Philip ! did you but know who they are ! — and did 
you but guess their errand ! 

“Mary,” says Philip, “you had better sit down: you must 
be tired after yoiir walk up the mountain. There, — ” point- 
ing to the very rock on which Mary once sat when Molly Pry 
was telling her fortune — “ is a good seat.” 

“I am not much tired,” Mary replies, as she avails herself 
of the seat; “ but I may be before I reach home, and I will 
rest in advance.” 

“ What a lovely evening it is,” observes Philip, who re- 
mains standing. 

“Yes,” Mary rejoins, looking toward the declining sun; 
“but — ” 

“ What?” asks Philip, perceiving that her eyea are wander- 
ing over the sky, as if in search of something. 

“ I miss some beautiful shining clouds, w^hich I saw when 
Tilly and I were leaving the lawn. They were so lovely that 
I feel almost sad without them now. After all, a perfectly 
c'ear sky is not the most attractive.” 

“ The clouds generally disperse near sunset,” Philip ob- 
icrves, “ unless a rain is brewing.” 

“ But they were so light and thin, they could have con- 
tained no rain.” 

“ That is the reason they are gone. The sun will set clear 
this evening, which augurs fair weather for to-morrow. To- 
morrow will, no doubt, be a pleasant and beautiful day ; proba- 
bly more so than to-day has been. Well, I am sure it should 
be, of all days in the year: — our wedding day, you know,” 

“ Yes,” is Mary’s brief rejoinder. 


TOO LATE. 


547 


** "Wont some folks be surprised ?” he suggests, 

** I suppose they will,” Mary replies. 

Just to think — not a soul besides ourselves kno'ws or sus- 
pects it, except — except — the minister; I presume I had best 
call on him this evening and engage his services.” 

Except! Ah, Philip, you came near saying — “except Bill, 
and the other boys at the cave, you know.” 

Mary is silent and thoughtful, with just half an inclination 
to blush. 

“You will be perfectly happy, wont you, Mary?” Philip 
ask;s. 

“Yes, — oh, yes.” 

They converse for half-an-hour ; and strangely enough^ 
Mary appears to be growing morose again. Philip does nearly 
all the talking, and Mary replies in monosyllables. At 
length the conversation lags, and Philip stands near her 
watching the now fast-declining sun. Mary sits in silence — • 
her eyes cast upon the ground, and the old shade of sadness 
fast returning to her lace. Why, how foolish I Notwith- 
standing her determination to the contrary but an hour ago, 
she has again allowed her mind to revert to the strange 
words of delirium which she heard Philip utter little more 
than a month ago ; and the old distrust is rapidly taking pos- 
session of her. What can be the reason? Ah, she has re- 
called the words of old Molly, the fortune-teller. She has 
not thought of them before for a long time ; but since her 
taking a seat on the same stone which she occupied then, th^ 
words of the old beldam have recurred vividly to her mind. 

At length, Philip turns to remark that the sun is getting 
low, and that it is time to proceed down the mountain ; and 
he actually starts as he perceives the change that has passed 
over her face. lie is about to speak of it, but Mary inter- 
rupts him. 

“It was just two years ago,” she remarks; and her voice 
Bounds so strangely that Ph.dip half believes it is that of 


THE WHITE EOCKS. 


another ; and he even glances uneasily about, to see if any 
one else is present. 

“ Two years, Mary ?” 

“ Yes ; two years since my father’s death. I have no doubt 
he died this day two years ago. 

Oh.” 

Philip,” she continues, in a voice so strange and unnatural 
that it see^s to proceed rather from a spirit within her, than 
from herself ; “ you murdered him ; I am sure you did ; I 
heard you say so when you were delirious.” 

She speaks calmly, and does not seem to realize that she is 
Bpeaking at all. A moment ago, she did not know that she 
was about to utter these words; a voice within seemed to 
Bpeak for her, as unexpectedly to herself as to Philip Kirke. 

But oh, who ever saw the face of an apparent gentleman 
change to that of a manifest villain so suddenly ! Her words 
have startled his black soul, and made his false heart leap. 
And how, in an instant, the unmistakable villain beams from 
his countenance! And how the ruffian is heard in his voice, 
when he speaks I 

“Fool 1 What do you mean?”ffie exclaims, almost chok- 
ing with sudden rage and fear. 

Fool 1 What an epithet from one who an hour ago spoke 
only soft words of love 1 But the whoH. man is changed 
since then. The voice is now coarse and brutal. His look 
and manner have undergone a revolution. His face is most 
changed of all. An hour ago it was eloquent with expres- 
sions of unselfish love : now it is pale with madness and fear; 
and, combined with the abasement of the detected criminal, 
is a murderous look. 

Mary sees all this, and reads aright. She does not cry, or 
scream, or rave ; but silently wishes to die, and go to her 
father. Then she remembers that the man who took her 
father's life is standing before her; that but for him her 
fdihei* might have been with her yet ; that they might still 
have been happy. She remembers, too, that but for her love 


TOO LATE. 


349 


of Philip, and his pretended love of her, she might still, one 
day, have been happy and cheerful without her father. Oh, 
v.'hat a hypocrite Philip Kirke has been ! In the space of a 
second she contemplates it all. In the space of a second all 
the honeyed words he ever spoke to her, from the time of his 
false declaration of love to the present time, flash across her 
mind, and she cannot help thinking what a treacherous 
heartless wretch he must be. She does not curse him’ 
though, nor pray that some fitting torture bi meted out to 
him. Neither does she reply to his rough words. 

Now she recalls the bright May morning, just two years 
ago to-day, on which George Roland avowed his honest love, 
and was rejected. She remembers, too, that George warned 
her then of Philip Kirke ; that he reminded her he was a 
stranger in the settlement, and might not be a good man ; 
that he besought her, for her own sake, not to confide in him. 
She does not know what so vividly brings back that scene. 
George is an honest, warm-hearted, noble fidlow, Mary muses ; 
there .can be little doubt of that. But then she never loved 
any one, with the love of woman, save Philip Kirke — and, 
alas ! he is her father’s murderer. She does not know why 
her heart went to him. Indeed, she thinks it quite strange 
that it ever did. Yet she is sure it did. She is sure she has 
loved him ever since they became acquainted. She wishes 
he was not a bad man, that she might love him still: she 
does not know why she wishes that. She feels very strange- 
ly, somehow. She looks toward the sun, and wonders how 
soon it will go down. She thinks it will not be more than 
four or five minutes — ten, at most. The sun is nearly down. 
The western horizon is all aglow with streaks of crimson. 
The landscape is much darker now than it was awhile since. 
The trees, which looked of a very dark green then, appear 
almost black now. The lower edge of the great round orb — • 
it is quite large and red now — seems impatient to touch the 
glimmering horizon. 

Mary starts as a rough hand suddenly clutches her arm. 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


It is llio hand of Philip Kirke. She has never known him 
vO be other than tender before. Now he is so fierce, and her 
arm feels as though an iron vice had closed upon it. His face 
is still pale, and has growm more like that of some fiend. His 
bloodless lips quiver, and his teeth grind together as he hisses 
in her ear: 

“ A curse on you I What do you mean ?** 

Do not touch me 1” says Mary, with awful calmness; and 
she makes an effort to rise. 

“ If you dare to move/' Philip exclaims, glaring upon her 
with a murderous look, “ I'll strangle you f' 

Philip Kirke! hold off your hand!” Mary exclaims, 
losing her unnatural calmness and springing up. 

But he clutches her arm still more fiercely, and forces her 
to sit down. 

“ You fool !” he hisses from his set teeth and pale lips. 
“How durst you trifle with me? How durst you accuse me 
of — of — Have you betrayed me 

‘•Let me go 1” is Mary’s reply. 

“ Tell me, or I ’ll tear you in pieces!” he exclaims; and he 
continues to tighten his grasp upon her tender arm till his 
nails cut into the flesh, and she is almost frantic with pain. 

“ Wicked man ! beware what you do ! Let me go, I 
Bay!” 

Mary is pale as death, her voice is husky, and her lips are 
dry and parched. 

“ Let you go I No ; I *11 wring the life out of you if you 
talk that way I Tell me : Have you betrayed me?” 

“ Let me go ! I was not in league with you in your mur- 
• ders and highway robberies : how could / betray you?’* 

“ Woman 1 Idiot ! How dare you talk thus ?” 

** How dare you do such deeds ?** 

Ha I you taunt me I Your fate is sealed I Look upon 
the sun 1 it is just going down 1 Fool / it is the last you shall 
ever see /” 

Vile man I what would you do?** 


TOO LATE. 


851 


** Dash you to pieces !” 

No ! no ! you must not — you shall not hill me ! Let me 
go!” And Mary struggles frantically to free herself. 

“ No, I ’ll not let you go till I send you from me to meet 
death ! — death at the foot of the cliff!” 

“Oh, Heaven! you will not, you can not, be so wicked! 
Oh, leave me I leave the settlement while you may in safety 1 
Do not add this sin to youiLBOul !” 

“ Do n’t talk to me of sin 1 My soul is black with it 1 My 
conscience is dead ! The devil lives in my heart!” 

“ Oh, Heaven of heavens 1 Have I loved such a man as 
this 1” ^ 

“Love! Bah! A snap for such idle talk! Love! Non- 
sense ! A proper theme for soft-brained idiots!” 

“ Oh, is this the man who has for weeks and months so 
sweetly talked to me of love?” 

“ Enough ! The sun is sinking and the devil urges me on 1 
Curse you ! You have been a fool, and you shall pay the 
penalty !” And the heartless demon drags the terrified girl 
toward the brink. 

Mary starts back in horror, and struggles like a lion in the 
not; but he holds her with a grasp of iron. 

“Oh, merciful Heaven!” she exclaims, wildly I “Oh, Philip 
Kirke! if you have a spark of human nature left in you, 
desist! It will do you no good to commit this crime ! I tell 
you, no one but myself knows of your bad deeds ! Escape 
while you may, and I will never divulge the fearful secret! 
Go ! Go ! You murdered my father ! do not load your soul 
with the crime of his daughter’s murder !” 

“ Idle words !” he hisses. “ You shall die /” 

“ Oh, Heaven !” Mary exclaims, as she realizes what a 
heart of flint she has appealed to. “ Oh, just Heaven ! is it 
for the murderer of my father, and my own murderer, that I 
have rejected the pure love of the companion of m}^ girl- 
hood’s days. Oh, George ! George ! if you were here now 
you would save me from this murderer I’* 


852 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


If the murderer has hesitated before, he hesitates no 
longer, having heard that. Nearer and nearer to the brink 
of the precipice, with the savage fierceness of a wild beast, 
he drags the struggling girl. His face now wears a more 
deadl}’’ look than ever ; his eyes shoot forth a hellish fire, and 
the froth is standing upon his lips. 

“ The sun is half hid, and my work not done !” he mutters, 
hrarsely, as he makes a fierce effort to hurl his victim over 
the brink. “What ! not over yet? Ha! The devil is impa- 
tient 1 Now you go ! Curse you I let go my coat 1 Youi 
struggles are vain 1 You shall die !** 

“Philip! Philip!” screams the frantiq^ girl, still clinging 
madly to his garments, and gasping wildly for breath at 
almost every word. “ Philip ! — Do — not ! — I — implore you 1 
—Do not ! — for your — own sake 1 — not mine I Oh, God I Do 
I love him still ? — ” 

“ Curse your tongue ! Down ! Down ! Down I” 

He hurls her furiously from him, and, clinging to detached 
fragments of his garments, she sinks upon the verge of the 
cliff, and loses her balance. 

Still she has not * descended. With frantic energy — the 
energy of despair — she clings to some jutting corners of rock, 
and is suspended over the fearful descent. 

“ Not yet?” yells the murderer. “ Not gone yet?” 

“Save me! Save me !” screams the wretched girl. “There 
is yet time to avert this crime from your soul !” 

Now the sun hides behind the far-off hills of the west, and 
the mountains seem to grow many shades darker in a twink- 
ling, as the enraged demon seizes a detached stone, rushes to 
the edge of the precipice, and crushes her hands against the 
hard rock. 

“ God have mercy I” she exclaims ; and, with a piercing 
scream that almost startles the wild rocks themselves, Mary 
relaxes the grasp her mangled hands can no longer retain, 
and — hark! a dull sound ascends from far below — she lies t 
shapeless, life! ess mass at the base of the clifll 


TOO LATE. 


858 


*‘Tlie deed is done !” 

Philip Kirke stands a moment, trembling fropa head to 
foot, listening as though expecting some sound yet to ascend 
from his mangled victim. All is still, though. He heard the 
dull crash when the body reached the bed of rocks ^ar below ; 
he has heard nothing since, save, indeed, the voice of an owl 
that has witnessed the dark deed from its place in the 
thicket. 

But, hark! Footsteps! A withered old womsn rushes 
from the bushes, and swinging her arms wildly above hex 
head, cries out : 

Ha 1 Did I not predict it? Too late ! Too la<e ! Too 
late for succor, but not too late for vengeance!” 

Immediately three strong men emerge from the bushes, 
and stand upon the rock. The murderer sees them. They 
are George Boland, Ned Stanton, and an officer of the law. 

With a mad curse, he leaps away. They are awaje of hir 
last horrible crime, and, leaving the withered old woman 
(Molly Pry) standing at the edge of the bushes, k ughing, 
screaming and gesticulating like a lunatic, they pursue ! 
Swift as a deer he flies along the verge of the precij-ice, till 
he reaches the crevice in which the rough stairway descends. 
The avengers are almost upon him : they have come swiftly 
too. He bounds from the plateau, and springing, like a wild 
goat, from rock to rock, soon reaches the base of th« height. 
He has distanced them in the descent. Away he goee among 
the bushes like the wind. He looks back but once, and seea 
something lying at the base of the White Bocks that makes 
him scream like a madman. He makes a circuit round the 
end of the ledge, and soon reaches the path. His hat ia 
gone; his coat is torn to shreds, and, like his disheveled hair, 
the pendent fragments stream behind ; the perspiration ie 
rushing from every pore of his body ; his eyes seem starting 
.^rom his head; the white foam is still upon his lips: and 
thus, hotly purged by the avengers, the murderer flees down 
the mountain. 

23 


354 


THE WHITE ROCKS, 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE FLIGHT. 

The chase was a fearful one. Philip Kirhe fled on the 
wings of fear, and his pursuers were urged on by the 
feelings of vengeance. Away he went, like a wild aeer, not 
deigning to follow the course of the path where it wound 
about ledges of rock or steep declivities, but rushing over all 
obstacles, bounding down almost perpendicular descents of a 
dozen feet, and clearing at a leap clumps of tangled bushes, 
trunks of fallen trees, or projecting rocks. 

No less reckless of danger, his pursuers rushed after him. 
The strength and speed of the horse seemed to have been 
suddenly bestowed upon them ; and in their impetuous de- 
scent, great stones were here and there dislodged from where 
they had lain for years, and came rolling and tumbling after 
them for fifty or a hundred paces. 

The dusk of night was fast thickening when all reached the 
base of the mountain. The murderer was not one hundred 
paces in advance of his pursuers when they reached the 
public road. On one occasion he fell headlong upon the dust^ 
road, did not rise for several seconds, and his capture seemed 
sure. But when they had begun to think he was hurt, he 
sprang up, and with accelerated speed flew on. He soon 
arrived opposite Ira Tate’s house, and — confusion I — he 
quickly loosed Ned Stanton’s horse, which stood at the gate, 
mounted, and rode away like the wind. 

“ A curse on that horse of mine !” exclaimed Ned. “ May he 
drop dead in his tracks I” 

The animal did not drop dead in his tracks though, and in 
a few moments more he had borne the murderer ir*om view. 


THE FLIGHT. 


355 


*’ Come !” exclaimed George Eoland, “ hasten to TraX and 
there let us get horses and pursue I” 

“And we must tell this terrible news!” exclaimed the 
warm-hearted Mr. Jones. “We must tell it without time to 
5rst get ’em ready for it I Oh, it ’s too horrible 1” 

Eeaching the gate, they threw it open, and ran hastily up 
the path. 

“ What on earth is the matter?” ashed Tilly; she, Ira and 
Aunt Eliza meeting them at the door. 

“Ira! Ira!” exclaimed Ned, breathlessly. “Horses! Your 
best horses ! Quick ! That fellow, Kirke, is a devil I He 
is a robber 1 He is a murderer ! He has murdered Mary 
White 1” 

“ What 1” exclaimed all three, doubting that they had heard 
aright. 

“ Kirke 1 Phil Kirke I Did you not see him mount my 
horse and escape ? He has murdered Mary ! — thrown her 
from the White Eocks 1 Go with us to your stable 1 Quick { 
We must take him !” 

Tilly screamed frantically ; but Aunt Eliza, feeling that no 
sort of justice could be done the occasion in that line, remained 
calm. 

“ Come, Ira I” said George, arousing him from a state of 
lethargy; “come with us to the stable, and give us horses! 
Mr. Jones, stay here till we bring the horses, and tell Miss 
Eliza a word more.” 

With this George and Ned hastened to the stable, accom- 
panied by Ira, who had, at last, got himself to realize the cir- 
cumstances. 

“ Oh, Mary ! Oh, Mary !” he exclaimed, frantically, as they 
hurried toward the stable. “Oh, Mary! Pretty Mary! Good, 
sweet Mary! Oar pet! Our darling girl! Murdered! mur- 
dered! murdered!” 

Without taking time to unlatch the stable door, the strong 
old man burst it open, tearing the heavy wooden latch, an 
though it had been a corn-stalk. 


356 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


There they are !** he said ; “ the horses — the bridles — the 
saddles ! Take them quick ! You must catch him ! These 
three horses is the best. Saddle them two, and I ’ll attend to 
this! Oh, Mary! Our poor Mary! Where is she, boys?” 

“You had better take a neighbor or two, and go up to the 
White Eocks,” said bTed. “ The poor girl is lying at the bot- 
tom of the tallest part of the cliff. Poor Mary 1 — she never 
breathed after she fell !” 

In less than a minute, the three horses were led from the 
stable, saddled and bridled. Mr. Jones, who had by this 
time fully explained all he knew of the tragedy to Aunt Eliza, 
joined Ned and George at once. The three quickly mounted, 
bade adieu to the disconsolate family, and rode toward Wes- 
. ton at a pace that made the road tremble. 

It was dark when they reached the cross-roads, a mile from 
the village ; and there they drew up for consultation. 

“ The question is, which way has he gone?” said Mr. Jones. 

“ Let us get off, and examine the horse’s tracks,” suggested 
Ned. 

Just then the step of a horse was heard approaching on the 
left-hand road. When it drew hear, Ned recognized the ani- 
mal as his own, but there was no Philip Kirke in the saddle. 
Since being relinquished by its rider, the horse had obviously 
been pacing up and down the road ill at ease. 

“ He has been thrown off!” said Mr. Jones. “ Probably he 
is lying along the road, not far off.” 

“ No,” replied George, “ I see through his artifice : he has 
turned the horse loose upon this road to make us believe he 
went in the direction of Morgantown ; while he has turned to 
the right, and, on foot, hurried away to the robbers’ den — of 
which he little imagines I know anything. There we may 
find him at any time within the next twenty-four hours, I am 
perfectly sure.” 

“Then suppose we go to Weston, and give the signal for 
all to turn out.” 

We had better go at once to Weston, but as for firing the 


THE FLIGHT. 


85 ? 


vxix'LOiif I do not think it would be judicious. He would hear 
it, and it might lead him to suspect that we had discovered 
his connection with the robbers, that we were aware of their 
location, and that we were collecting a force to dislodge them. 
Then he would not remain there, of course. We had better 
proceed q^uietly, and he will take it for granted that we are 
searching for him toward the south. Let us go to Weston at 
once, and from there quietly send word to all the boys to 
assemble with their arms, that we may be on the robbers at 
daylight in the morning. To go to their den at once, and 
attempt to capture them in the darkness, would insure the 
escape of some of the rascals — Kirke as likely as any one 
else.” 

The others concurred in this, and they rode to Weston ; 
where, within an hour, a hundred armed men were assem- 
bled, ready to follow George Koland to the rendezvous of the 
robbers. 

It would be useless to attempt to describe the consterna- 
tion and horror of the citizens, on being informed of what 
Philip Kirke had done ; and their unutterable amazement at 
learning of his complicity with the robbers. We will pass 
over that. In due time, however, indignation got the better 
of astonishment, and all were impatient to deal out summary 
vengeance upon the robbers, and especially their leader, the 
dastardly, treacherous Kirke. 

Tony’s chagrin, at the thought of having unwittingly har- 
bored the robber and murderer for several years, approached 
the ludicrous ; for, after calling himself all the stupid fools he 
could think of, and declaring upon oath that if he had had 
the sense of a four-week-old calf he might have seen guilt in 
the villain’s looks, he walked into the bar-room, seized the 
bottle containing the liquor Philip had usually drank, brought 
it out before the crowd, in a somewhat formal manner, and 
dashed it to atoms upon the street — creating quite an odor in 
the vicinity, (the bottle being nearly full at the time,) and 


358 


THE WHITE BOCKS. 


causing Ned Stanton to remark that it was & deplorable 
waste of good things, however justifiable. 

The full extent of George Eoland’s discoveries of the after- 
noon was not, for prudential reasons, promulgated. It was 
generally understood — Ned Stanton and Mr. Jones having 
been admonished not to divulge what they knew — that George 
had merely obtained a clue by which he felt confident he 
could lead his company to their dert; which was located in 
Greene county ; that Philip Kirke was one of them, and that 
he had doubtless been taken across the river in a boat. This 
understanding of things, in case a spy should be lurking in 
the vicinity, where he could hear the conversation, would 
iserve to mislead him most effectually. 

Philip’s effects, which of course still remained at Tony’s, 
were searched by the constable, and a considerable sum of 
money found. Some thought it not improbable that he would 
return stealthily in the course of the night, and attempt to 
recover his money : and accordingly a careful watch was kept 
upon aH the dark alleys and obscure corners of the village. 
John Duffey, and a young farmer — one Wilson, whom we 
have mentioned before — were sitting together at one time 
near midnight, in a dark lane that led northward from the 
village, performing the duty of watchmen, when they heard 
a rustling ,of some bushes or weeds in a lot behind them. 
They were conversing in a whisper at the time, but imme- 
diately ceased ; and the next moment a man scaled the fence, 
with a quick and dexterous motion, and stepped upon the 
ground beside them. With the strength and impetuosity of 
a panther, Duffey sprang upon him, clutched his throat, and 
brought him to the earth. The other hastened to his assist- 
ance; but so firmly did John maintain his grasp, and so 
thoroughly effect a temporary cessation of respiration on the 
part of the intruder, that he needed no help. 

Eun to Tony’s,” he said to his companion, ** and bring 
some of the boys out, and a rope to tie this rascal I Oho, 
Kirkey I The game is up with you I” 


int FLioiT. 


Wilson did as directed, and in a minute or two others had 
come to the spot, and the captive was bound, hand and foot. 
John then relaxed his grasp on the neck, and it was soma 
minutes before the prisoner showed any signs of returning 
vitality. When he did, though, he recovered rapidly ; and, 
being raised to his feet, he found himself able to stand — with 
the kindly assistance of a man at each elbow. He was then 
carried to Tony’s bar-room, and accommodated with a seat on 
a whisky-barrel. 

It was not Philip Kirke ; but George Roland at once recog- 
nized him as one of the robbers whom he had seen at the cave 
that afternoon. As soon as his understanding had properly 
returned, and he was able to swear freely, he was informed 
that his “ time ” had “ about come.” 

“ I s’pose it has,” he returned, with a savage oath ; “ but 
there ’s a feller hur, if he ’s not a coward, an’ ’ll give me jist 
a (j^uarter of a show at a fight — I do n’t care if he gives me jist 
the use o’ one hand — 1 ’ll tear his throat, an’ heart, an’ liver 
out, in one minute I” 

That ’s myself, I presume,” said Duffey. 

“ It ’s a feller whose name is Roland,” said the captive, 
who, by the way, was no other than Buster. 

** What do you Imow of me ?” asked George. 

“ You killed my brother.” 

“ Ha I It was y our brother who was shot here last fall ?** 

** Yes, it was 1 A.n’ if — ” 

“ I thought I saw a resemblance,” interrupted George. 

But who told y' u I killed him?” 

“ I heered it,” *vas the stubborn reply, 

“ But who told you?” 

** I heered ^t,'* he repeated. 

“ Yes, you heard it from Philip Kirke, your gentlemanly 
master. He thought by telling you that to get you to mur- 
der me. Oh, I know more than you think,” said George, aa 
Buster started. “ Do you believe what he told you 

“ In course I do.” 


860 


tHE WtiT^ 


“ Weil, my beauty, you *re mistaken. Not that I would n’t 
as lief have shot him as not — and you, too — ; but, you see, 
your treacherous captain, as you call him, Philip Kirke, would 
give no one else a chance, and shot your brother himself.” 

“What? It’s a lie!” 

“ Well, your time is short, and I suppose you ought to be 
allowed a little privilege ; so, for the present, you may use 
your impertinent tongue as you like. But you may rest 
assured that Philip Kirke shot the robber whom you call 
your brother.” 

“ Yes, indeedy, old cooney,” put in another, “ that ’s a fact. 
Any of the boys here will tell you so.” 

“Why would he shoot him?” queried Buster. 

“ For the best reason in the world — to prevent him from 
divulging what he knew (which he was about to do), and 
exposing his treachery. We did not see through it at the 
time, but we do now.” 

“If I thought that was so,” Buster broke forth, “I’d — 
I’d^” 

He did not say what he would do. What could he do, 
eituated as he was ? 

“ It is true,” said John Duffey. “ Now tell us one thing, 
you villain, or I ’ll blow your brains out, right on the spot. 
Is there any one else prowling around beside yourself? Out 
with it, or you fall dead this minute!” And John held a 
pistol close to the eye of Buster. 

“ No ! no ! no !” he exclaimed. “ Indeed there ain’t !” 

“ Now, if you are lying, and we find you out, which we 
will — ” 

“ No 1 no 1 I ain’t lyin’ I ^ I swear I ain’t I If I am, may 
I be—” 

— In fact, served like they frequently serve a stream of 
water near a mill, you know. He was evidently telling the 
truth. 

“(So, Phil Kirke sent you to watch, eh?” 

Buster hesitated. 


tME ELlafif. 


261 


“I see you are determined to be stubborn, and there is no 
ntse b iving any further bother with you. So, if you have any 
choice as to whether you would prefer being shot through tha 
head, or body, why — ” and John cocked his pistol again. 

“Oh, don’t!” exclaimed Buster, “If you don’t kill me, 
J 11 tell you 1” 

“ Let ’s hear it, then. Did Kirke send you?** 

“Yes.” 

“ Does he expect you to return ?” 

“No, not till mornin’ — ’less I have news for him.** 

“What news did he expect?” 

“ He said if you fellers started that way to come and tell 
him.” 

“ What way ?** 

Buster was silent again. 

“Never mind, John,** observed George Roland, “I know 
enough of their location.’* 

“ Very well,” responded John. Then turning to Buster, he 
said : “ We do n’t know whether to let you live till morning, 
or not.” 

“ I ’m in favor of blowing his brains out, and having no fur- 
ther trouble with him,” remarked one. 

“ Oh, no 1” ejaculated the miserable man. “ Give me timol 
Oh, give me time I” 

“ But you might escape, as one of you did once.** 

“No, I wont. I — I — ” 

“Spare yuur breath. We know you wont so long as you 
are watched ; and so you shall be till your last minute.” 

“ I think we may use this fellow,” suggested George Ro- 
land. “ Look here, villain,” he went on, addressing the cap- 
tive, “ if we spare you till to-morrov/, will you assist us in 
rooting out your abominable den? In case we should have 
difficulty in finding it, will you guide us to it?’* 

“Yes; oh, yes!” 

“ Then, boys,” said George, “ keep a good watch on him, 
and should he attempt to escape, put six or eight balli 


§62 


THM WHITE EOCitd. 


through his head. In the morning we will take him along, 
though I doubt whether we shall need his services. It will 
not be so very long till we start. We must be at the place 
by early dawn, and the distance is several miles.” 

In wakefulness and watching the company passed a couple 
of hours; and impatiently did they await the first glow of 
the East that should herald the approach of morn. 

An hour after dark, on the evening of the murder, Philip 
Kirke, to the astonishment of his vile associates, rushed into 
the cave, exclaiming : 

“ I ’ve played the d — 1 1” 

His appearance was wild, as we have before described, and 
the blood was starting from his mouth, nose and ears. Alto- 
gether, standing in the dim red light of a single candle that 
burned within, he presented such a ghastly picture that even 
the inmates of the cave were appalled. 

“Yes, I ’ve done it 1” he exclaimed, wildly. “I’ve done 
it ! I ’ve killed the girl! I ’ve dashed her brains out ! I’ve 
hurled her from a cliff on the mountain that ’s half as high 
as this bluff! I have! It was her own fault! She had 
heard me talk when I was delirious, a month ago; had heard 
me let every thing out ; had heard me tell all about the cave 
here — all about you fellows — all about the murder of her 
father; and she had no more sense than to tell me when we 
were both on the cliff! What should I do then but throw 
her over ?’ 

Bill was feilent ; whether struck with horror at the deed, 
or not, is a q^uestion. 

“ I was seen in the very act,” Philip went on, “by three 
blood-th-^’^ty men — Boland among them. They pursued me 
for sorr^ 'distance, but I outwitted them all ! Ha ! They ’ll 
not fiv ^ ne here ! I can stay here securely as long as I 
pleas'"; * ^/ftd I can go back and kill them all at my leisure I 
Ha! Hal” 

Bill could not speak, nor could the others. They began to 
look upon Philip as little short of mad. 


fHE FLIGfif. 


$ 6 ^ 


''Go, one of you!” said Philip, with a start. Go to the 
Village and watch their movements — see what direction they 
go to search for me ; and if they start in this direction, come 
and tell me. Who ’ll go? Who is a good spy ?” 

“ I ’ll go,” said Buster, as the others hesitatad. 

“ Go, then, and be careful. Do n’t let them get hold of 
you. Be as quiet as a mouse, and keep your ears about you. 
Take any route you choose, but do not miss your way. Go I 
Go!’* 

“Mast I stay all night?” Buster inquired. 

“Yes; so long as you do not see or hear anything threat- 
ening, stay and watch. I will understand by your absence 
that all is safe. When daylight comes, hasten back. They 
might see you if you do n’t.” 

“ I will.” And Buster left the cave on his perilous expe- 
dition — to be captured, as we have already seen. 

“ Ah,” muttered Philip, when the spy had gone, “this cave 
looks dark with only one candle. Those corners look aa 
though they were gloomy openings into the hill ! Light an- 
other candle. Bill — have you one?” 

“ Yes, plenty.” And Bill sprang to obey. 

“ Light a good candle — one that will shed a clear light. I 
do n’t like the dark ; it makes me feel queer. Hark 1 You 
did n’t hear anything ; did you, Bill ?” 

“ TSFo — only Buster climbing up the rocks outside.” 

“ Oh, I thought it sounded within. Bill, what is that in 
the far corner there ?” 

“ Only some wood piled up,” returned Bill, ^o was in the 
act of lighting an additional candle. 

“ Is that all? I thought I saw it move. You *re sure it 
the wood?’" 

“ Sartin. You had better take a good drink, cap’n, an* 
wash the blood off o’ yer face.” 

“I will! 1 will! Give me the jug! Quick! And the 
water! I sav, Joe!” 

“ What ? 


m 


THE WHITE EOCSS. 


“ Keep a lookout about tbe mouth of the cave, wont you?*' 

“ Yes, I ’ll watch.” And Joe seated himself near the 
orifice. 

“The light could n’t be seen from the outside, could it?” 
asked Philip, uneasily. 

“ No ; this blanket covers up the hole good enough — ’sides, 
the wines hang about so thick that air could n’t git through,” 
was Joe’s reply. 

“ Eight I Eight I I ’m glad of it I Bill I” 

“ What is it, cap’n?” responded Bill, as he gave Philip the 
atone jug and tin-cup. 

“ There ’s no danger of Buster’s getting caught, is there ?” 

No,” returned Bill. “ I reckon he ’s too sharp for that. 
If any feller could ’tend to that job, an’ not git ketched, it ’a 
Jiim 1” 

“ I thought so,” said Philip. “ Oh, I think it ’s all safe. 
Now for a drink. Sam, you are not going"'out ?” 

“No, cap’n.” 

“ Do n’t. I want you to stay in to-night. Stay back there 
in the further part of the cave, and keep watch. I do n‘'t 
suppose any one can get in that way, but it ’s not sure. I ’ve 
heard of people crawling out of the ground, and they might 
do it to-night. It looks so dark back there.” 

“Nobuddy kin come through the rocks, cap’n. Still, I’ll 
watch.” 

“ Well, I ’m a little over-cautious, perhaps.” 

Philip now took a copious draught of the strong whisky , 
after which (Bill having brought the water) he partially 
washed the blood and dust from his face. He drank repeat- 
edly during the next hour, but the liquor merely stupefied 
his nerves ; it did not drive away the inward torment engen- 
der-ed by his last fearful crime. For several hours he con- 
tinued to glance uneasily about him, frequently asking nia 
companions if they heard any strai<ge noise, as of some one 
groaning; whether they did not hear some one breathing 
with difficulty near at hand ; and whether they did not hear 


teE FLIGHT. 


S65 

fetealtiiy footsteps in the cave. Once he ashed whether a 
strangedooking man, wrapped in a white sheet, had not 
passed behind him, or was not standing behind him then, 
looking over his shoulder ? He often looked to the right and 
to the left, but never once did he dare to turn his head and 
glance behind. He had not done so since leaving the White 
Rocks. He had looked back once then, and, oh, what a 
sight he had seen ! 

At length he arose nervously from the stool on which he 
sat, and took a seat on another, with his back against the 
wall. This was evidently to get rid of some imaginary mon- 
ster that seemed all the time standing at his back. Still he 
was not easy, for now he imagined that some horrid thing, 
like a reptile, was about to crawl down the damp wall and 
entwine itself about his neck. 

Near midnight he fell into a doze, but before many minutes 
sprang up with a scream. He had only been dreaming. He 
had fancied that Buster had ^ been taken; that his captors had 
carried him to the White Rocks and dashed him over ; that 
he had witnessed all, but had not himself been seen. 

For awhile he sat trembling in every limb, while great 
beads of unnatural perspiration started from his brow. He 
arose and took another hearty draught of liquor — drinking 
actually half a pint — then threw himself down upon a bed 
of loose straw, and at last fell into a deep sleep. 

Bill and his companions also lay down, and were scon 
sleeping soundly ; and quiet reigned at the Robbees’ Dkm. 


866 


THE WHITE HOdl^S. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

EETRIBUTION. 

The sun liad not yet risen above the mountain, but broad 
beams of light, shooting up toward the zenith from behind 
the great hills, told that he was not far off; the stars had 
nearly all paled away, and only a few of the brightest were 
yet dimly visible, when George Roland led his company of 
armed men to the verge of the bluff overlooking the river. 
Buster, who had involuntarily accompanied the party, w^as, 
to say the least of it, astonished that George, without his as- 
sistance, had conducted the party, by the most direct route, 
to this interesting locality. He could not help wonderixig, 
and could scarce forbear inquiring, how and when he had 
found them out. True it was, though, that George had, by 
some means, discovered not only the location of their rendez- 
vous, but also its nature, and even its number of occupants. 

“ Now boys,” said George, within the hearing of Buster, 
who was carefully guarded, “ the entrance to the cave in 
which the ruffians dwell, is right at yonder shelving rock 
against the bluff. The vines hang so thickly there that you 
might walk to and fro on the shelf for a day or two without 
discovering the opening leading to the cavern within. I 
wish to place you all, or as many of you as convenient, in 
positions from which you can pick them off as fast as they 
come out, if they will not surrender. Unless I am much mis- 
taken, there are but four of them, including the arch-demon 
himself, Philip Kirke. Am I not right T' he asked, turning 
to Buster. 

^ Yes, it *8 a fac*,** Buster returned. 


BETRIBUTION. 


867 


•* If we fin(l you in a lie in the slightest particular, we ’ll 
tie you to a tree and roast you to death by inches 1** 

“ I ’m a tellin’ the truth ; I swear I am !” 

Very well. Now, boys, they are armed, of course, and 
will probably make a desperate fight — I say, you, how many 
pistols have they in there ?” 

“ Only twenty,” Buster replied, as though to palliate hia 
own transgressions as one of the outlaws, by making the 
number of weapons seem small. 

“ Any rifles 

** No, not any. A few knives, though — a dozen or so.” 

“Their knives will not serve them,” said George. “ Now. 
as I was going to say, they wdll no doubt fight desperately ; 
but I do not want one of you to risk his life. To set our lives 
against the lives of such wretches as these, when we can take 
them without, would be foolish in the extreme. Therefore, 
take your positions so that you are covered by rocks, or con- 
cealed by bushes or vines; and do not give any of them a 
chance to draw a bead on you. They are no doubt asleep 
now, but we could not enter without awaking them ; for the 
entrance is so small, that only one man can get in at a time, 
and that by crawling on all fours. Now let us move down 
with as little noise as possible, and, when we are all ready, I 
will awake the sleepers so suddenly that they will be aston- 
ished. Bring that fellow with you, well-guarded, as we may 
have occasion to use him.” 

“ You need n’t be afeard o’ me runnin’ away,” put in Buster. 

“We’re not,” replied one of his guards; “you’ll be too 
well watched for that.” 

The party now descended the bluff, and as many as could 
took positions within fair range of the shelf, all half hidden 
by vines, bushes, or rocks. Then the path, whiA wound its 
way down to the little harbor,. was discovered, and a number 
descended and found the robbers’ boat. Several remained to 
guard it, in case the villains should make a sally and attempt 
to gain it. Although some noise had necessarily been made, 


868 


THE WHITE BOCKS. 


the roLbers were evidently still asleep ; for no one had a;> 
peared at the opening. They had certainly placed the most 
implicit reliance on their scout, Buster. 

“ Ti^ey are all asleep,” said George, “ and I am going to 
wake them in a hurry. When I have done so, I will get out 
of the way of their fire, and take a position near.” 

George now clambered down till he stood upon the shelf; 
then he stopped and listened. All was quiet. He could 
hear nothing but the beating of his own heart; which, it 
must be confessed, was rather livelier than was positively 
requisite to sustain life. Moving the vines gently aside in 
several places, he soon discovered the mouth of the cave, 
which was still blockaded by the pendent blanket. He 
could barely reach the blanket, and, gathering a portion of it 
in his grasp, he tore it down with a savage jerk, and imme- 
diately fired a pistol against the rocks surrounding the onfice. 
Simultaneously, all the inmates sprang to their feet, and a 
half-suppressed voice was heard to exclaim : 

''We ’re discovered !” 

“Robbers! Outlaws! Murderers!” George called out; 
“ Surrender !” 

He had but uttered the words, when the report of a pistol 
was heard within, and a bullet came whistling past his ear. 
He sprang aside, congratulating himself on his narrow 
escape ; and for a few moments stood ^ and listened. Ha^ 
could hear confused voices within, but could not distinguish 
the words. 

''Are you going to surrender?” he called out, keeping 
carefully out of range. 

*' Who are you ?” asked a gruflf voice. 

“I know who he is,” said another voice, which, although 
Bomewhat clanged in tone, George recognized as that of 
Philip Kirke ; and the report .of a second pistol rang out, 
and another bullet came from the cave. 

•' That is a useless waste of powder,” said George, address^ 


RETRIBUTION. 


869 


mg those within. ** An officer of the law is here to arrest 
you, and there are a hundred armed men here ready to assist 
him.’ 

“ Beware,” came from within — it was Philip Kirke’^ voice 
— “ we, too, are a hundred strong, and you cannot take us.” 

“ Kirke,” returned George, that wont do. I know how 
many men you have there — just three, besides yourself. You 
might have been five had you not sent out a scout last 
night whom we captured.” 

Bang ! went another pistol ; and another bullet passed 
harmlessly by. 

“Come! are you going to surrender? — or shall we take 
measures to compel you?” asked George. - 

“ What ’ll be done with us if we do?” asked a voice which 
had not been heard before. 

“Hush!” cried Philip. “Don’t talk of surrendering I 
Surrender to that Boland? Never!” 

George answered the question nevertheless, and very frankly. 

“ You will be hung, every one of you,” he said, “ and espe- 
cially you, Philip Kirke, for the fearful crime you committed 
last evening — to say nothing of the murder of Henry White.” 

No reply came from within, and George was about to call 
to them again to surrender, when a hand was suddenly thrust 
out from among the vines, grasping a pistol, which was 
quickly leveled toward the spot where he stood. He dropped 
upon the shelf to avoid it, and as he did so it was discharged ; 
but without effect. George now saw the propriety of chang- 
ing his position, which he did by climbing a few feet up the 
bluff, and placing himself directly over the entrance, where 
it would be impossible for any one within to bring a pistol to 
bear upon him. 

“Are you going to surrender?” he asked. 

A volley of oaths, such as he had never before heard Philip 
Kirke utter, now came from that maddened villain. He 
called down upon the head of George all the blasting, wither* 
ing imprecations, that fiendish hate could suggest. 

24 


THE WHITE HOCKS. 


m 


Only let me come out and figlit you fairly, — or even with 
half a chance, — in any way you may name,’* he said, at 
length, addressing George, “ and after that I will surrender.” 

“ That is idle talk, Philip Kirke,” George replied. “ There 
was a time when T might have been so foolish as to stake my 
life against yours, — ay, and willingly, — but I did not know 
you then ; I thought you were at least a man ; now I find 
you are no better than a brute. Do you think I do not value 
my life higher than that of one who is thrice a murderer?” 

“ Then — curse you ! — I *11 kill you yet, before this fight is 
over. You cannot take us here. Only one man can enter 
this cave at a time, and any one who tries it will be a dead 
man before he gets half way in. What do you think of 
that ?” 

** I think you must either come out, or stay in there and 
starve to death,” returned George. 

“ Starve ! Ha ! Ha 1 We have provisions enough in here 
to last us a year !” 

Provisions are of little use without water,” suggested 
George, and that you cannot have in any great quantity.” 

There was no response to this, and it was evident that the 
truth of it was sorely felt. 

“ You need not think, however,” George resumed, ** that 
we are going to wait here till even thirst forces you out. You 
must come out of there before the day is half over, or suffocate.’" 

“ Suffocate?” 

Yes ; we ’ll smoke you out.” 

“Try it, and be d — ” somethinged; George didn’t under- 
stand what. 

Parties were now dispatched for axes with which to cul 
wood and brush, with a view to kindling a fire on the shelf 
in front of the cave, while others proceeded to Weston for 
brimstone — the latter to be thrown upon the fire when it 
should be started, in order that its fumes might enter the 
cave ; as they certainly would, for the little breeze that was 
stirring, struck fairly against the bluff. 


EETRIBUTION. 


371 


The sun was now up, the sky was clear, and the morning 
was one of the most beautiful and pleasant of the season. 
The river flowed smoothly and quietly by, scarcely feeling the 
gentle breeze that played upon its surface. As on the beau- 
tiful May day that Henry White lay sufiering in that cave, 
the birds were singing their morning songs as happily as 
though no danger or suflering were near. 

As soon as the first ax arrived, George took it and pro- 
ceeded to cut away the vines which, grew out from the bluff 
and overhung the mouth of the cave. He soon severed them 
all at the roots, and they fell down in a heap, and tumbled 
from the shelf, leaving the opening entirely exposed, and 
letting more daylight into that vile den than had ever before 
penetrated it. Several shots were fired from the mouth of 
the cave during the operation, but in vain. 

The robbers were now evidently alarmed at the threaten- 
ing state of things, for they were heard in most earnest con- 
versation within, and the word ** water was uttered in such 
a tone as to convince George that they were but poorly sup- 
plied with the article. 

“Now,” George called out, “we are prepared to light a 
fire in front of your cave and smoke you out ; shall we do it, 
or will you come ?’* 

There was no reply. 

“ What do you say ?” George asked. 

Again the robbers were heard in earnest conversation 
within. 

“Answer at once,” said Georg.e, “or the fire shall ba 
lighted. We have already gathered large quantities of com- 
bustible matter, to say nothing of a few dozen pounds of 
brimstone, and — ” 

“ Give us a little time,” came from within. 

“ I will give you five minutes,” said George, “ Will yon 
answer at the end of that time?” 

“ Yea,” 


372 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


** Boys,” said George, “ has any one of you a watch ?- -for 1 
hav n’t.” 

Not one in the crowd had a watch. 

“Kirke has one; he’ll lend it to us for the purjose, I. 
should think,” remarked one, who was rather inclined to be 
witty. 

Another of the party, however, gave him his quietus by 
saying : 

“ Certainly he will. Suppose you go in after it.” 

As the witty gentleman could not think of acceding tu this 
proposal, it was suggested that the allotted five minutes 
should be measured by counting a certain number — say five 
hundred. Some argued that four hundred would be suffi- 
cient, while others, more liberal, opined that six hundred 
would be about the figure. And thus, before they were 
aware of it, a little discussion ensued, occupying fully five 
minutes ; and after all it was concluded that one of the boys 
should count five hundred deliberately, and that when done, 
if the villains v^ere not ready to surrender, the fire should be 
kindled. The combustibles were piled over the entrance, 
ready to be tumbled down upon the shelf and ignited as 
soon as it should be apparent that such measure must be 
resorted to. 

The young man who did the counting was not one inclined 
to mercy’s side, and did not advocate the granting-much-tims 
principle; and it has been stated that he not only counted 
much faster than his instructions warranted, but that he was 
even known to ** skip ” as many as ten in every hundred. At 
last he had the satisfaction of pronouncing the “ five hun- 
dred,” which he did with a look of triumph, and a flourish 
of the voice which a political speaker might imitate with soma 
advantage. When he had finished, George called out : 

** The time is up ; what are you going to do?” 

The reply came from Bill — Kirke, no doubt, feeling too 
bitterly to negotiate with George Boland, his rival, enemy, 
and evil genius. 


RETRIBUTlOlf. 37 ? 

“We ’re a goin* to give ourselves up if you say you ^ont 
slioot us all down as we come out.” 

“Come out, then,” said George. “We will not slioot you 
right away. Mind you though, no tricks ! Bring no arms 
with you. The moment we see that you mean to be false to 
your word, you shall be shot down.” 

The robbers did not intend to surrender. They had 
weighed the matter carefully, and they thought that there 
remained just one faint gleam of hope for them, and that was 
their chance of reaching the boat by brandishing their arms 
and rushing suddenly down the path when all should stand 
upon the shelf. It was therefore arranged that they should 
follow each other from the cave in quick succession, — their 
arms concealed about them, — draw their pistols and leap 
hastily down the path. They expected to be fired on, but 
surely in the hurry and confusion one or two of them might 
escape. The hope was a very slight one, — just like the straw 
at which the drowning man clutches, — for even should they, 
or several of them, succeed in reachii^g the harbor, they might 
find the boat guarded (as indeed it was), and still be at the 
mercy of the besiegers. Yet it was a hope, — a last and only 
hope, — and they clung to it accordingly. 

“ We’re a cornin’ now. You wont fire on us?” Bill called 
out in a tremulous tone. 

“We ’ll keep our word if you keep yours,” George replied. 

Instantly Bill sprang out, and stood upon the shelf, then 
Joe followed, then Sam, and Philip was on the point of fol- 
lowing, when Bill, rather prematurely, drew a pistol and 
cried out : 

“Come! Come on I Now fur it!” And with one accord 
the three sprang toward the path. 

There was a. succession of sharp reports, a scream or two, 
an oath, a groan ; and the three robbers fell. Bill tumbled 
over the bluff, with a broken thigh and a wound in the side; 
Sam fell forward, just as he reached the head of the path, and 
after tumbling a few paces down the rustic stairway, lodged 


'374 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


against, a rock; while Joe sank prostrate upon the shelf, and 
never moved again. Philip, however, had not come out : he 
still remained in the cave. 

Bill fell from rock to rock till within a dozen feet of the 
river, where he lodged among some thick bushes that grew 
from among the rocks. Some of the boys climbed carefully 
down, and found him dying. He was unconscious, and he 
never spoke again — never revealed his many dark crimes. 
Sam was taken up, mortally wounded. He was conscious, 
but barely able to speak. He gave his name and the number 
of his companions, stating that no one now remained within 
the cave but Philip Kirke. He was carried to the top of the 
bluff, and laid upon a bed of moss; and there within the 
ensuing half-hour his life blood oozed out. It was apparent 
to all that Joe was dead, and for the time his body was 
allowed to lie where it fell. 

Buster looked very solemn, and on being asked what he 
thought of it all, felt constrained to admit that it w^'as “ noth- 
in’ more than right.** 

Are you yet convinced that Philip Kirke killed your 
brother?** was asked. 

“ Yes, I are,” he replied, thoughtfully. 

'‘Are you not sorry you ever mixed in with such a vil- 
lain ?’* 

“ Yes, but it *s too late now. I ort to a been that afore I 
done it. But I *ve alius been bad myself. I never had 
nobody to tell me nothin’ about not doin’ no bad things, and 
as might be spected, I turned out bad.” 

It was now clear that Philip remained alone in the cave, 
and it was equally certain that he would not suffer himself 
to be taken alive. George Poland was determined to cut the 
matter short, and he called out to the wretched man : 

“ Philip Kirke, we see that you meant treachery. Your 
wicked companions have met the fate they deserved, and only 
you are left. We do not intend to waste much time with 
you. Will you come out and surrender, or not?” 


RETRIBUTION. 


875 

•‘Surrender to you! Curse you, no! ITot if it were to 
save my life and soul!’ Surrender to you! Oh, I could go 
to the lower regions content if I were only first allowed the 
privilege of blowing your heart out !’* 

“ That privilege we could not think of granting you, 
although there is no doubt it would be very pleasant to 
yourself. Once more : will you come out V' 

“Never!” 

“ Then prepare to die. The fire will soon be lighted, and 
the fumes of brimstone will soon fill the cave and choke you.’ 

“ Well,” put in an unsympathizing youth, “he may as well 
commence to get used to the smell, for I reckon he ’ll get 
nothing else for his meals before long.” 

“ Bring on the wood and straw,” said George. 

“Ah, cowards!” Philip hissed forth, in a tone of such bit- 
ter hatred, that the words seemed to grate against the rocki 
as they came from the opening. 

“Cowards!” returned George. “Was the man who way- 
laid and murdered an old man a coward? Was the man who 
incited his vile confederates to waylay and murder several 
unoffending men with whom he daily associated a coward ? 
Was the man who threw a poor, weak, defenseless girl from 
the tallest cliff on the mountain, and dashed her to pieces — 
was Tie a coward ? Bah ! If such a man is brave, let me bo 
a coward !” 

No reply came from the cave. The dry wood and straw 
were tumbled from over the entrance, and began to pile up on 
the shelf, and preparations were made for setting it on fire. 

“ Philip Kirke,” said George, “ all is ready. We have 
asked you for the last time to come out.” 

There was no reply. 

“ Novr the fire, boys.” 

Suddenly the sharp report of a pistol was heard within, 
something was heard to fall, and when the echoes died away 
all was still. 

“He has shot himself!” suggested one. 


876 


THE WHITE BOCKS. 


George was ahont to descend to the shelf, when, to the 
surprise of all, Buster came springing down the bluff; and 
before any one could divine his purpose, he had reached 
George and intercepted him. 

“Don’t go down!” he whispered, as George turned upon 
him, half in anger, half in wonder. “ Do n’t go down 1 It ’s 
a trick 1 He wants to make you think he has killed himself, 
and the minute you git in sight of him he is ready to shoot 
you dead 1” 

Buster was right. Philip was, at that very moment, stand- 
mg near the entrance of the cave, with a loaded pistol in his 
hand, waiting for George to make his appearance. His eyes 
gleamed with a demoniac thirst for the expected blood, and 
his hand shook in greedy anticipation of one more bloody 
deed. But he had committed his last crime. 

George instantly concurred in the opinion of Buster, and 
gigning to the others to beware, he called out : 

“ Philip Kirke, if you think to entrap me with such a trick 
as that, it is but an act of charity on my part to undeceive 
you as early as possible.” 

George spoke purposely in a taunting tone, which he felt 
sure could not fail to elicit a spontaneous reply from the mur- 
derer, if his conjectures should prove correct. He was right, 
too ; for instantly a volley of bitter curses came from the cave, 
the sound of which indicated that he was standing quite near 
the opening. 

George vas about to proceed with the suffocating arrange- 
ment, when Buster thus addressed him, in a low tone : 

“ Oap’n, if you ’ll let me, I ’ll fotch the feller out. It ain’t 
that I spec’ any mercy fur it; but he killed my brother, an’ 
afore he dies, I want to let him know as I know it, an’ to do 
him a turn as ’ll pay him back in part.” 

“ But he would shoot you if you were to present yourself at 
the mouth of the cave.” 

“But I’ll pretend I’m escapin’, and I’ll holler to him to 
let me in.” 


HETEIBUTION. 


87T 


“Yes, and like as not tkat will be the last we’ll see of 
you.'* 

“ No, you may count on me. I swear it. D ye s’pose I *d 
go in there to be suffocated, when I can die hur in the open 
air ?” 

“ Well, I do n’t know what to say. What do you say, 
Ned?” said George, appealing to Ned Stanton; “is he up to 
a trick, or not?” 

“I think not,” replied Ned. 

“Then, fellow, you may go,” said George. “But wait: 
First I will explain the matter to the others, that they may 
not think you are running away, and shoot you. I will also 
have several shots fired , in another direction, to make him 
think we are firing at you. Do you understand?” 

“Yes.” 

George climbed cautiously about from post to post, and in a 
few words explained what was to be done. All were confi- 
dent that Buster meant well; and George returned to hia 
position, and told him to go. 

Buster made a rush among some bushes that grew near, 
leaped down upon the shelf, yelled loudly, and while the 
reports of a dozen rifies rang out, presented himself at the 
mouth of the cave, and, breathlessly, called out : 

“ Cap’n ! cap’n I It ’s me I I *m ’scaped ! They ’ve hit 
. me ! Help me in ! Quick !” 

The ruse took. The unsuspecting murderer dropped hia 
pistol, almost rejoiced at the prospect of having a companion 
to suffer death with, and extended both his hands to draw 
Buster in quickly, ere he should receive a fatal wound. With 
a sudden and unexpected movement, Buster grasped both hia 
wrists firmly, and sprang back upon the shelf with such quick- 
ness and energy, that Philip was drawn clear out of the cave 
before he could at all comprehend the true state of things. 
He soon got a terrible inkling of it, however, and exclaimed : 

“ Dog 1 Have you betrayed me ?” 


878 


TfiSi WfilT?® 


** Yes/’ returned Buster, coolly, still holding him fast, ** an 
all cos you killed my brother. I heerd of it.” 

A hurried movement was made by George and those near 
at hand to secure Philip, and a most desperate struggle 
ensued between him and Buster : the former making frantic 
efforts to free himself, and the latter straining every muscle 
to hold him till assistance should arrive. They were not 
long in working their way to the edge of the narrow shelf, in 
their struggles; and, ere any one could reach them, both tum- 
bled over, still struggling. When they found they were fall- 
ing, each relaxed his hold, and Buster, fortunately grasping a 
thick vine, succeeded in arresting his downward progress, and 
in eventually gaining a seat, pro tempore, on a projecting rock. 
Philip made a similar effort to save himself, but failed; and 
away he went, rolling, tumbling, and falling down the bluff, 
striking upon sharp rocks at short intervals in his fearful 
descent, and here and there actually leaving fragments of his 
torn flesh adhering to the sharp corners and points. Down, 
down, down, striking, bounding, tearing, crushing, bleeding, 
went the body of the wretched murderer, till it landed lifeless 
in the river far below. It floated out a few yards upon the 
surface of the water, leaving a crimson path after it ; then it 
sunk, and was seen no more in the vicinity of the Bobbers* 
Den. 

♦ 4c 

Let us now take a hasty leave of the cave in the bluff, and 
of the only occupant thereof who was permitted to live: 
namely, Buster. He was assisted from his irksome position, 
after Philip Kirke’s fate had been ascertained, and proved 
quite docile, and even useful. He conducted George and 
many others through the cave, and pointed out, with credit- 
able precision, the various crevices in which their treasures 
were concealed. He also explained many things about the 
cave, showing its adaptation to domestic purposes. It was 
almost with pride that he referred them to the neat fire-place 
which nature had constructed when forming the cave itself, 


retribution. 


m 


ttis was a large nicte in the further wall of the cave, which, 
fts it ascended, grew narrower, until it terminated in a small 
fissure which, Buster explained, took its way among the rocks 
till it came out upon the bluff some forty feet above, among 
some thick bushes. This, he stated, carried off the smoke, 
and “ drawed ” in a way that no chimney need be ashamed of. 
He boasted that few natural caverns possessed such facilities 
for dwelling in as this, although there was a rather deplor- 
able scarcity of water within — there being no vestige of a 
spring. He could not help remarking that a clear, cool spring 
in one corner was all that was wanting to make the cave 
superior to any other institution of the kind anywhere on the 
globe. 

He made a “ clean breast” in relation to all crimes pro- 
jected and executed by the fraternity in their days of pros- 
perity. He was particularly precise, and even eloquent, in 
describing the murder of Henry White, which, he had no 
hesitation in saying, was a “ gol-dashed shame,” and that it 
was a consoling reflection to him that he had had nothing to 
do with it. At the request of George Eoland, he conducted 
the party to the spot where Henry White had been buried, 
that the remains might be removed to the village churchyard. 

In consideration of his improved deportment, the company 
concluded not to hang him, but to hand him over to the civil 
authorities, which they did. 

And now, to be brief: He was tried in due time, only on 
the charge of highway robbery, plead guilty, and was sen- 
tenced to imprisonment for life, with the understanding 
that his sentence should be extended, in case it should ever 
in the future come to light that he had been directly guilty 
of worse Crimea. 


380 


THK WHITE BOCKS.. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

IN MEMORIAM. 

We cannot be too brief now. It is not our purpose to pio 
ture tlie last sad rites performed over all that was mortal of 
Mary White. Suffice it to say that no funeral in Fayette 
county was ever more largely attended, or characterized with 
such deep solemnity. 

For some reason, the remains of the murdered girl were 
interred in a family burial-ground on Ira’s farm. We have 
several times stood by the large gray stone that marks the 
spot, and read the inscription thereon ; namely, In Memory 
OF Mary White, who was murdered at the White Rocks, 
May 12, 1810.** To this is added a homely verse, which 
possesses only the merit of rhyming a couple of times, and 
which does not speak very highly of the poetic genius of the 
composer. 

The farm on which the graveyard is situated is known 
as the “Hayden Farm.** It lies near “Fairchance Iron 
Works,” six miles from Uniontown, and is, in common with 
the White Rocks and Delany’s Cave, much visited by tourists 
and pleasure-seekers. 

It is rather the object of this chapter to introduce — and 
certainly not inappropriately — a poem which the tragedy at 
the White Rocks naturally elicited from the pen of our village 
Bard, and which, the reader will probably agree, is not en- 
tirely without merit. But let it speak for itself: 


IN MEMOEIAM. 


3S1 


“LINES 

“oir THE MUEDEE OF MAET W— , 

“ Who was thrown from the White Rocks by a false lover, May 12th, 


“ The sun is glowing at the close of day, 

Bathing the landscape with celestial fire ; 

The earth is decked with all the flowers of May, 
And hills and dales smile in their fresh attire. 

“ The mountains rear their lofty heads on high — 
They, too, are clad with foliage fresh and green— 
As though they fain would kiss the azure sky, 

And thus add grace of action to the scene. 

“ The evening air is pleasant, calm and still ; 

No sighing breeze or tender zephyr blows 
Against the face of the ascending hill, 

To stir the wild-vine or the mountain rose 

“ Half hid among the trees, full many a cliff 
Clings to the mountain side ; but there is one 
That rises far above the rest, as if 

To catch the last rays of the setting sun. 

“So high it towers, that, from its lofty crest, 

Full thirty miles of rolling hills are seen. 

All in the pleasant garb of spring tide dressed; 

And many vales that, sleeping, lie between. 

“ What quiet reigns ! the air how soft and mild ; 

The old gray rocks how silent and how grave; 
How motionless the vines and bushes wild ; 

The trees how still, their branches do not wave. 

But hark ! what piercing scream breaks on the air 
From yonder cliff that rears so high its crest? 
What dread, what danger, or what pain is there ? 
What mortal lo affrighted or distressed ? 




tHE WfilTfi HOCftS. 


** Or was it but a panther on the height, 

That shrieked so like a Luman in dismay? 

Did it but call a comrade for the night, 

To go and seek some unsuspecting prey T 

•^Hark! ’tis repeated! ’tis a human shriek! 

A maiden’s voice! — it calls aloud in fear! 

What danger threatens ? What aid does she seek ^ 
Or who is there in this wild place to hear ? 

•• Do prowling wolves come swift upon her track, 
Emboldened by the near approach of night? 
And does she, to avert the mad attack, 

Flee to the summit of the rocky height? 


•* Ah, no! Behold a more vindictive foe — 

A murderer I she struggles in his grasp ; 

He fain would hurl her to the ground below; 

But still she shrieks, and clings with frantic clasjv 


•*He heeds her not — her prayers are all in vaini 
His soul is hellish fire — his heart is stone ; 

His rude hand thrusts her to the brink again; 

She shrieks and falls, and now the deed is dont 


•* At such a deed, the blushing orb of day 
Covers his face behind a western hill, 

As if, indeed, ashamed to longer stay, 

And gaze on acts so dreadful, base and ill, 

•‘The murderer flees, his soul beset with fear; 

He starts away amid the gathering night; 

His deed is seen, avenging hands are near; 

They swift pursue him in his hasty flight, 

••They Ve gone — the murderer and avengers too: 
He rushes down the mountain like the wind; 
On wings of vengeance, they as swift pursue, 
And leave the solemn scene of death behind. 


IN MEMORIAM. 


883 


•• Where yonder cliff arises, draw thon near; 

In awe, remove the covering from thy head; 

Be grave and thoughtful — drop a silent tear, 

Thou standesi in the presence of the dead. 

•• There lies the body, lifeless, bruised and tom; 

The soul has barely winged its flight away: 

The wild-vines sigh, the rude rocks laugh in scorn, 
At such a helpless, useless lump of clay. 


•• So beautiful a single hour ago ; 

So full of life — the home of sense and light : 

But ah, how dull, how dumb and lifeless now ; 
How changed in looks, how ghastly to the sight. 


•• Ah, maiden, what infatuating dream 

Hath brought thee here to meet the murderer’s wrathT 
Did some impatient friend across the stream 
Direct thy foot-steps up the mountain path? 


••Was there a beckon from an unseen hand? 

A noiseless whisper from a silent breath?— 
To call thy spirit from the lower land, 

And urge thy body to untimely death? 


••Oh, stand aside, impenetrable vail! 

That hides the land of shadows from our sight 
Oh, let us see the waiting friends that hail 
The maiden’s spirit in its upward flight I 

•• Ah, could we see the liberated soul 
Enter the portals of the land above, 

Received by waiting parents at the goal, 

And clasped in arms of everlasting love ; 

•• Then might we turn, without a single tear. 

And fix our gaze on the deserted clay : 

The picture of the spirit’s heavenly cheer 
Would surely drive the earthly gloom away. 


384 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


"Let not the tender form lie here to-night; 

Let not the pale cheek catch the falling dew: 
The mournful owl is screaming on the height, 

As though himself were filled with sorrow too. 


The vail of night is falling thick and fast ; 

The glow-worm dances on the mountain side; 

On stealthy wings, the bat goes Hitting past; 

The whippoorwill is chattering far and wide. 

"May not some hungry wolf scent from afar 

Those drops of blood that sprinkle the white facet 
And steal up in the darkness to devour 

The helpless form once full of life and grace ? 


"Shall flesh like this feed savage beasts of prey, 

Among these lonely hills, now wrapped in gloom f 
Oh, no ! Come, friends, bear the cold form away, 
And, with due rites, empale it in the tomb.** 


There is also a ballad extant, written on the same subject, 
by Mr. Samuel Little, an estimable gentleman of Fayette 
county, who was present when the mangled body of the 
murdered girl was taken up from the rough bed of rocks to 
which it had been precipitated. The ballad, which we have 
heard sung with excellent effect, and with which almost every 
person of that section of country is familiar, we think it not 
improper to quote: 


IN MEMOEIAM. 


885 


•• ON THE DEATH OF MARY W , 

•who was murdered at the white rocks, may 12th, i81(X 

•‘Young men and young maidens, come hear a sad story ; 

A sorrowful deed has been done in these lands ; 

A sweet blooming maiden was slain by her lover. 

While waiting for transports in Hymen’s soft bands. 


•The streams were all swollen, black clouds hid the mountaini. 
The vales lay enveloped in misty array. 

When I climbed the damp hills and beheld with dread horror, 
The spot where all mangled the poor victim lay. 


•‘ Grim rose the huge rocks and deep sunk were the caverns-- 
With thorns and keen briers the place was o’er grown ; 
Above, the dark brow of the mountain hung frowning — • 
In the valleys sad midnight had built her black throne. 


“Sweet girl, these wild rocks ! What a rude nuptial chamber' 
Is it meet that a bride on the cold ground shall lie, 

While the howling of wolves and the scrsaming of panthers 
Resound in the thickets and valleys hard by? 


‘ How long didst thou toil up this steep rugged mountain ? 

How weary I How fainting thy delicate frame ! 

But fond hope still cheered thee, the moment approaching 
To crown promised pleasures that virtue nc^y claim. 


“ Oh, sad was the moment when smiles and caresses 
Were changed to black curses and murderous blows! 
Ob, how could the lover at once be a demon ! 

His foul heart unblushing, how could he disclose 1 


• I see thee all pale, and all trembling before him; 
I hear thy entreaties, thy heart-rending cries; 
But, poor lonely victim, no helper is near thee— 
No father, no mother, to answer thy sighs. 

25 


886 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


“ The struggle begins — his fell hand is uplifted; 

I see thy blood flowing — thy screams are in vain ; 

Ko more than the rocks will his heart have compassion— 

No more than the rocks will it melt at thy pain. 

“ Those fair eyes so lately with tenderness blooming, 

Now roll with wild horror and start with keen pain; 

And soon, very soon, will be sealed up forever, 

No sun of to-morrow will greet them again. 

•* At the wide-gaping wounds th^ ^x)or spirit waits fluttering, 

A path all unknown it must shortly pursue; 

A faint — a last sigh from thy bursting heart whispers, 

* Poor traitor ! — Poor murderer ! I bid thee adieu 1* 

•* Ye rocks that stand near her, how can ye but tremble! 

Are ye with the merciless traitor combined? 

Yes, ye, toO, are stained with the life’s ebbing crimson, 

In your heartless bosoms no friend can she find. 

•* Ye caverns that groan while her heart-strings are breaking, 
Can ye not conceal the unfortunate fair? 

Or expand your dark fissures and sieze her tormentor, 

And hurl his black soul to eternal despair? 

** Oh where sleeps the thunder — the lightning’s red vengeance J 
Is no friendly Genius inciting them on ? 

Is Heaven no more a protector from danger ? 

When lovers prove murd’rers, is hope ever gone? 

Still groan ye deep caverns, still shriek ye dark valleys I 
The lost one shall witness against you for aye. 

That ye silent stood by ’mid the soul-rending torture, 

That crowned the dark eve of this terrible day. 

"’Twas piteous, fair maiden, that strangers’ rude shoulders, 

Through thickets should bear thee down to thy long home — 

Bough pines of the mountains thy soft limbs supporting — 
That no brother or sister should weep at thy tomb. 


CONCLUSION. 

•‘'Twas the cold hand of strangers that placed thy death pillo\t. 
That closed the sunk eyes, and thy winding-sheet gave; 

No friend stood around thee to sing a requita ; 

No tear cf a parent has softened thy grave. 


** Ye spirits who sit round the grave of the murdered, 
Each evening chant forth her unparalleled woes; 
Ye cold clods that hide her, lie light on her bosom — 
Once torn by rough rocks let the fair flesh repose. 


•* Sweet sufferer, sleep on, and may Heaven protect thee; 

May angels sit watching thy innocent clay, 

Till the last trumpet sounding — thy soft slumbers breakings* 
Calls thee home to the realms of ineffable day I” 


These lines, of course, could not be called high-sounding 
poetry; but they were written to be sung, and have fully 
accomplished their mission as a pathetic ballad* 


CHAPTER XL. 

CONCLUSION, 

Following close upon the events of this narrative came 
the war with Great Britain, known as the “ War of 1812.” 
A company of volunteers was speedily organized at Weston, 
and at once entered the military service. It was made up 
chiefly of those who had assisted in annihilating Philip 
Kirke's institution; and it is needless to say that George 
Roland vras the captain. It is also needless to say that John 
Duffey, Ned Stanton, Will Hempstead and Tony Baily were 


388 


THE WHITE ROCKS. 


prominent members. Even “Noisy Dick* left his blacksmith 
shop in th^ care of an apprentice and went. 

The brave Weston boys, armed with their own sure rifles* 
were at first sent to the frontier, where they soon gained 
some celebrity in their fights with the Indians. Subsequently 
they were recalled, and attached to a Pennsylvania regiment, 
with which they participated in the bloody battle of Lundy’s 
Lane. It was a sad battle for the brave riflemen. One half 
their number met with either serious or fatal wounds. George 
Roland, their intrepid captain, was wounded several times 
during the engagement, but would not leave the field while 
he had strength to stand. Will Hempstead was killed by 
the side of his friend Duffey, while nobly doing his duty in 
the face of death. Ned Stanton — whatever his faults, a brave 
fellow ! — was color-bearer that day, and, in the midst of a 
hand-to-hand conflict with the enemy, received a mortal 
wound ; but even then, while the life-blood was trickling 
from his breast, he continued to strike manfully about him 
with a fragment of a broken musket, crushing down a foeman 
at every blow; and at last fell to the ground, covered with 
the red glory of battle, and still grasping the staflP which 
bore the proud banner of his country, while a loud shout of 
VICTORY ! greeted his dying ear. 

His friend Dick, who had not spoken that day, was with 
him, and only exclaimed: “ Oh, Ned! My friend, Ned! God 
bless you !” 

Duffey and Tony Daily conducted themselves with becom- 
ing gallantry during the fierce engagement — as, indeed, did 
ail the company — and came out of the day’s strife with oniy 
slight wounds. 

This was not the only battle in which the Weston boys 
took part ; but to chronicle all their deeds of valor during 
the war would be to write a much larger volume than this. 
Their acts are duly recorded in the history of the country. 

George Roland never sought military distinction. He de- 
clined all offers of promotion, and when the war was over ha 




589 


returned to his native village a captain, as he had left it; and 
it v/as with mingled pride and sadness that he brought baok 
to Weston the remnant of his company of gallant riflemen. 

He did not marry for several years after his return ; but 
at last — it will come to that in such cases — he concluded no 
longer to repine after the lost object of his first love, and he 
and a bright young woman — Miss Kitty — were made one. 
He lived in Fayette county, a happy, thrifty farmer, to the 
allotted age of three score and ten. 

Only one of the actors in this drama is yet alive, and that 
is John DufFey : all the others hav-e passed away. The once 
gay, sprightly and mischievous youth is now a white-haired 
man of well nigh four score years. Although his step is slow 
and infirm, his eye dim and his ear quite dull, he still pos- 
sesses some of the good humor and affability of his youthful 
days; and we have often been amused at quaint stories we 
have heard him relate of his soldier life — especially one, of 
his pushing an officer into an air-nole on the frozen river, for 
calling him a “ liar,” and of his refusing to help him out (no 
one else being near) till the said officer promised not to re- 
port him at head-quarters. - 

John married the idol of his heart (Miss Maggie Ross) 
within two weeks after his return from the army, and they 
lived thirty happy yeaJ^s together before she was called away. 

Tilly Tate never married. She confidently prognosticated 
that, after the various shocks her heart had received, she was 
“not long for this world ;” that, in a word, she would “die 
young,” and follow her cousin, and — Ned; but, by taking 
good care of herself in damp weather, avoiding love and 
eleighing-parties, taking plenty of exercise in the pure air 
during the pleasant seasons, and carefully ignoring all physi- 
cians, she managed to reach the age of seventy-four. 

One fine morning, several years after the tragedy at the 
White Rocks, Ira Tate, in making his way to one of the 
fields where he had some work to do, accidentally fell from a 
aine-rai) fence which he was climbing, and came down with % 


THE WHITE ROCK 


crash in the midst of a clump of thistles. He was not seri- 
ously hurt, hut the thistles caused such stinging pain as a 
man of his irritable disposition is not apt to pass lightly 
over. He, therefore, sprang to his feet, broke four stout 
fence rails by striking them fiercely across each other, killed 
a small pig that chanced to be trotting by, returned to the 
house, and was sullen &nd morose the whole day. Near 
evening, while Aunt Eliza was preparing supper, and Tilly 
was down at the dairy, he abruptly said : 

** Liza, let’s get married.” 

And they did. 







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